Hear No Evil
by gaelicspirit
Summary: The trickster left the brothers in need of a clean hunt. An explosion turns a routine spirit hunt into anything but clean. Dean must deal with the ramifications, while Sam tries to finish the job and help his brother pick up the pieces. T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Ownership is a fantasy we have about the corners of our lives that sustain us. The muse belongs to no one but its creator. Which is certainly not me. More's the pity.

**Spoilers:** Season 2, set after 2.15, _Tall Tales_ and before 2.16, _Roadkill_. Anything prior to the first appearance of that darn Trickster is fair game.

a/n: This story has been outlined, but this time I didn't do it by chapter, I just did it by concept, so I have no idea how long or short it will be. The first chapter is intended to set the stage a bit, but I hope you'll be intrigued enough to return and find out how I'm trying to weave it all together.

I wanted to play in the idea that a story could be tactile. I don't know if I will succeed with this one–ya'll will be the judge on that. But I decided to give it a go.

Plus…Terry told me to.

Kelly, thanks for what you do.

_turns music up and settles in_

www

_Think like a man of action, act like a man of thought._

_Henri Louis Bergson_

* * *

"That seem weird to you?"

Ozone hung thick and tangible in the air, teasing Sam's lips with the acrid taste of lightning as he swiveled his head on his shoulders, his hair rustling against the unyielding stone of the grave marker, and looked with incredulity at his brother. Another flash of light revealed Dean with his back pressed flush against an imposing monument to the dead, his lower body hidden by the wide base of the obelisk. His strong, calloused hands were sliding down the barrel of his empty shotgun, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes narrowed against the sudden brilliance.

"You're gonna have to narrow it down," Sam called back.

Dean's hasty fingers slid another shell into his sawed-off shotgun and he darted green eyes Sam's way. "Lightning. But no thunder."

"We have an _ala_ on our asses, Dean."

Sam checked his clip. Empty. He shoved the useless weapon into his jacket pocket, shifting its cold weight deep into the hollow of material with a lift of his shoulders, and tightly gripped the bow in his left hand.

"What's your point?"

He heard Dean chamber a round, ignoring his brother's sarcasm. Night lay like a blanket over the small cemetery, peppering the leaf-cluttered ground with intermittent streams of moonlight as clouds scuttled across the wide expanse of sky, making Sam feel insignificant. The _ala_'s deep-throated groan rolling toward them from the other side of the cemetery made him feel too big. The grave marker he crouched behind was clearly insufficient as cover.

"Storm demon, man," Sam continued, pulling his lanky body close to the minimal protection of the tombstone, his heavy boots dragging tufts of grass along in his wake. "Lightning is like… its Impala."

Dean looked over at Sam, an eyebrow raised in appreciative amusement. His eyes were narrowed, his face pale in the quick flashes of electric light, but his lips were cornered in a grin.

"Guess we have to shoot the tires, then," Dean almost cackled.

Sam slid long fingers along the ground searching for the arrows. The arrows they needed to defeat the _ala. _The arrows he lost.He'd had them moments before. He'd had them before the _ala _tossed Dean away from him with a howl of frigid air. He'd had them as he'd rolled for cover behind the tombstone, eyes frantically seeking the familiar shape of his brother in the dark. He'd had them until the lightning started, dazzling his vision with white-hot light, slamming pain to the back of his skull like a ricocheting bullet, causing him to cower.

His fingers brushed pine needles, mulched leaves, minuscule twigs.

No arrows.

"Shit," Sam craned his neck to shoot a look over the top of the tombstone. A bolt of lightning cracked five feet from him, drawing an inadvertent cry from his throat and sending him forward, body curled instinctively in projection.

"Keep your fuckin' head down, Sammy!" Dean's growl was audible over the cacophony of the sudden wind.

Sam gaped momentarily at the shadowed figure now hovering above the scorched earth the lightning had just seared.

"I lost the arrows!" Sam screamed at him, hoping his renegade of a brother was grounded enough to remember that they needed the blood-tipped weapons to take down the Serbian demon.

"I know!" Dean yelled back. "I found them!"

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?!" Sam twisted around to try to get a look at the figure pelting them with wind and energy.

"Just did!"

Dean stuck his arm around the protection of the stone monument erected to honor the life of a man they didn't know, firing their last two rounds of salt into the human-shaped black cloud. The utterly _in_human shriek canceled the wind and left the brothers panting in the vacuum. Sam reached up and pushed a tangle of hair from his eyes, watching carefully as Dean pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, both working to steady their breathing.

"Here it comes," Dean whispered in the sudden quiet of the night.

Sam nodded, though he knew his brother's eyes were not on him. Not anymore. They were watching the sky as the shadow of the earth slowly ate the luminous silver of the full moon in an unnatural eclipse.

Twilight spread quickly over the surrounding land, and a creaking, stretching groan began to build from the belly of the shadow-like beast positioned on the other side of Sam. It was growing, stretching, lengthening, drawing power from the eclipse, feeding on the night.

Sam heard it draw breath.

"Sam. Come here." Dean's order was as compelling as if his brother had reached out and pulled him close.

Sam gripped the bow and crab-crawled through the ground debris to crouch next to Dean, not taking his eyes from the imposing figure of the _ala._

"Give me the bow."

"I'm closer," Sam shot back. "Give me the arrows."

"Sam! Give. Me. The. Bow!"

"Dean! Stop trying to—" A sudden infusion of fetid air halted his argument.

He looked over at his brother's face, pale in the oddly shimmering blue light save the scruff of beard that edged Dean's jaw and framed his tightly-drawn lips. Dean's wide eyes filled the hollows of his face with horror as he looked toward Sam's feet. His stomach tightening in a nameless fear, Sam followed Dean's gaze.

The ground was crawling.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed. "What the—"

Staring in awe at the unreal sight, Sam felt Dean's hand on his arm, fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket, desperation yanking Sam as his brother shot upright from his crouched position.

"Climb!" Dean ordered, pulling Sam up the side of the wide base of the obelisk as if he weighed nothing.

Sam shook off his shocked horror and dug the fingertips of his left hand into the grooves of the letters etching the name Martin Victor into the stone, climbing quickly to the narrow part of the obelisk behind his brother so that they both clung several feet above the now shuddering earth.

"What the hell!" Sam gripped the stone that jutted between himself and Dean, parting them and protecting them. He darted his eyes around the base of the monument, staring as the earth came alive with the dead. "_Ale_ don't create… zombies!"

"It's not," Dean said, slapping at his pockets with one hand while clinging to the narrowing point of the obelisk with the other. "It's bringing up the roots and stuff—look!"

Sam peered into the gloom and saw that Dean was right: the storm demon was using its power over the birth and destruction of earth-bound life to jump start the root system of the trees throughout the cemetery, shoving the caskets and coffins up through the dirt and into the night air.

Sam gagged as coffins fell open, spilling their contents onto the ground.

_Never seems this bad when we're burning them…_

"Where the _hell_ is my lighter!?" Dean exclaimed.

Sam couldn't pull his eyes from the image of the earth spewing her dead at the bidding of a shadow. "Rear left pocket," he called back.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed. "How'd you—"

"You always put it there," Sam replied, eyes on the nearly-perfect mummified face of a teenaged girl

"Huh," Dean commented, his voice muffled as he gripped an arrow between his teeth, flicking his lighter and holding on. "Yeah, okay, this is gonna be interesting."

"We could… climb down," Sam suggested, eyeing Dean warily. That last place he wanted to be was on the ground surrounded by decomposing bodies as the _ala_ harnessed the power of the moon.

"And have a grave open up and swallow us whole? No thanks." Dean lit the tip of the arrow he had gripped between his teeth.

Without prelude, without remorse, rain fell in a suffocating sheet of water. The fire at the tip of the arrow was extinguished and Sam's hair was instantly plastered to his skull, the deluge making even blinking difficult.

He was _breathing_ rain.

Flooding torrents ran with murderous intent along the ground, around their tenuous position of safety, blinding Sam and cloaking Dean. The only way he knew his brother was still balanced on the other side of the obelisk was by the feel of Dean's fingers pinned between Sam's chest and the monument where they both clung.

Sam felt his own grip slipping on the wet stone and wrapped a leg around the obelisk, catching Dean's leg between his and the stone as he did so. He felt Dean shift as his brother used that anchor to his advantage and released the obelisk with his arm, clutching the pillar with his knees, and lit another arrow, his body curved over the struggling flame.

"Bow!" Dean called, reaching for Sam, the tips of his fingers parting the curtain of rain that separated them.

Sam handed the bow over without argument, knowing the fire needed to burn away the blood before it pierced the cloud of the _ala_. Roots broke through the muddy earth. The _ala_ groaned in heady anticipation.

They didn't have time to screw around. He could feel Dean's leg shaking from tension and effort beneath his.

"Shoot it!" Sam yelled through the torrent of water. He could barely make out Dean's face as his brother protected the weapon with his body. "Shoot it, Dean!"

Dean didn't answer and Sam felt his brother's muscles spasm again. He gripped the obelisk with his left hand and thrust out his right to grasp the edge of Dean's wet shirt, trying to balance him. The stench of the blood burning away from the metal tip of the arrow could be detected through the wet air.

"Shoot the son of a bitch!" Sam pleaded, choking on rain.

Dean's shoulders rolled back as he straightened, his eyes blinking through the rain, jaw set, determined. One arm extended, the other drew back. Sam focused on his brother's hands, fingers curved and holding the notched arrow steady.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon c'mon…" Sam chanted.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon…" Dean echoed, and let the arrow fly.

The rain stopped with the sound of a scream shaking through the air like a heat wave. Dean's arrow buried itself deep in the heart of the _ala_, the effect rolling the earth, sending the tree roots into retreat, sliding the shadow free of the moon, and tumbling the brothers from the obelisk to the saturated cemetery floor.

For a moment they sat in silence, sputtering as the water abated in its flow, sinking slowly from around their waists to splash against their thighs. They stared as one at the empty space the Serbian storm demon had occupied.

"Now _that's_ what I'm talking about!" Dean suddenly exploded. He pounded a wet fist into a puddle of muddy rainwater and whooped. "Mess with the bull you get the horns, baby!"

Sam shoved his wet hair from his eyes, looking over at his brother in wry amusement. "You done?"

"Dude," Dean blinked water from his lashes. Moonlight illuminated his eyes and reflected off the water running in crooked lines down his face. "We just took down an ancient storm demon. It's okay to celebrate a little!"

"Hooray," Sam intoned.

"You're hopeless, Sammy," Dean shook his head, water skipping from the tips of his short hair to splash into Sam's eyes. He pressed his hands into the suctioning mud and struggled clumsily to his feet, reaching down toward Sam.

"You okay?" Sam asked, reaching up to grip his brother's mud-covered hand.

"Need to get me another Thigh Master if we do this again," Dean grimaced, rubbing at the inside seam of his soaked jeans.

"_Another_ Thigh Master?" Sam asked, bending over to pick up the discarded bow and arrow.

Dean smirked. "It's not all about exercise, Sammy."

"I'm sorry I asked."

Dean limped forward, snatching his shotgun from where it came to rest against Molly Fitzpatrick's tombstone. "Thanks, Molly."

"What are we gonna do about…" Sam looked around the dark, muddy cemetery, gaping graves like wounds in the earth, the bodies strewn and tangled like hap-hazard stitches.

Dean sniffed, shaking himself roughly, then tipped his head to the side, tapping water from his ears. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You want to re-bury them all?"

"Uh… no, not really," Sam confessed. "But, Dean—"

"We leave, Sam. Same as we always do," Dean started forward, away from Sam, rotating his left shoulder as if to work out a kink. "Somebody'll write it up as a freak storm and flash flood. Tide came in. Something."

"Tide?" Sam followed as the white in Dean's wet flannel shirt began to fade from his sight. "Dude, we're like…a hundred miles from shore."

"So," Dean glanced back at him. "No tide then?"

"No tide."

"Well, they'll think of something," Dean sighed as the Impala came into view, ensconced safely in a copse of trees well away from the _ala_ and any prying eyes. "They always do."

They removed the branch coverings from the trunk of the car, then Dean unlocked and lifted the lid, dropping his shotgun and the bow next to their two green duffels.

"Hey, I never asked you," Sam said, pulling his pistol from his jacket and setting it inside carefully. "Where the hell did you find dragon blood in Delaware?"

Dean chuckled, a low rumble from his chest that said more to Sam than the usual torrent of words his brother often used to cover emotion. Slowly shrugging out of his sopping flannel shirt, Dean glanced sideways at Sam with a, "Who said it was dragon blood?"

Sam paused in his attempt to wring out his jacket, peering at his brother through clumps of wet hair hanging like beaded curtains before his eyes. "Thought Dad's journal said—"

"That the dragon was the enemy of the _ala_, yeah," Dean nodded. "But that's not what Dad used."

Sam propped his foot on the bumper of the Chevy, mirroring his brother as he worked the tight, wet knot loose on his boot. "Dad fought an _ala_?"

"Man," Dean shook his head. "For all your studying you sure did miss stuff."

"Wait… you're telling me Dad fought an _ala_ when we were kids?" Sam asked, wringing his socks out and grimacing at his long, pale feet shining in the moonlight. He'd always hated the sight of his feet. His habit was to keep them covered at all times, but stepping mud-covered and drenched into the Impala was not an option. This much he knew without Dean saying a word.

He paused in his disrobing to wait for Dean's answer. He watched his brother reach over his head, a grimace of pain skirting the edges of his face, and grab his wet T-shirt between his shoulder blades, pulling it over his head and balling it up in his fists.

Sam frowned at the long scuff and bruise that ran along the length of Dean's left side.

"You remember that houseboat we stayed at for awhile in South Carolina?" Dean started, shaking the T-shirt out and hanging it on the raised trunk lid. He started in on the button-fly of his jeans, glancing askance at Sam.

Sam peeled his wet shirt from his body, feeling his flesh raise in ripples as the cool night air slid across his bare skin. He mimicked Dean's motions to the smallest gesture as they squeezed rainwater from their sparse collection of clothing.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, the wet tendrils of hair sticking to his cheek. He brushed them away impatiently and shoved the wet denim of his jeans down past his knees. "I remember being pissed because it was a dump and reeked like dead fish."

"Well," Dean flicked his wrist, twisting his wet boxers into a coiled rope and letting the water run over his bare, muddy feet. "That's because we were squatting there, dummy. No one had lived there for awhile."

Sam shook his head, his eye-roll lost to the night. He reached into this duffel and grabbed a dry pair of jeans, pulling them on sans boxers. They would be stopping soon, anyway.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," he muttered.

Dean shifted his dry jeans over his hips with a small hop and grabbed a gray Henley from his bag, pulling it over his head. "You want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry," Sam tapped the air in surrender. "Go on."

He wiggled his shoulders into a black hooded sweatshirt, enjoying the feel of the soft, dry cotton as it fell across his chilled shoulders. Perching on the opened trunk to dry his feet and don clean socks and his sneakers, Sam watched Dean gently probe the bruise on his side, fingers skirting his exposed ribcage like a piano player.

"You were, what? Ten, eleven maybe?" Dean said, sitting next to his brother in the opened trunk and shoving his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, having apparently decided he'd survive the wound on his side. "As usual, he didn't tell us why we were there…"

* * *

_South Carolina, 1994_

_I run the blade of the Bowie across the whetstone in the slow rhythm Dad has shown me without realizing he's showing me. It's hypnotic, this marriage of motion and sound. I fall into it, centering my attention on the curve of my fingers, the steady _shink_ of metal against the coarse, gray rock, the soft _whoosh _of air against the fine hairs on my arm. _

_It is a moment of peace I don't often get and I soak it in, knowing that any minute—_

_"Dean! Where the _hell_ is he?"_

_"Told you. On a job."_

_"Not a job if you don't get paid."_

_"Heroes don't care about money."_

_"Yeah, well, my _stomach_ does."_

_I lift my eyes and meet his sullen hazel gaze. His chin is propped on the backs of his folded hands, pressing his lips together in a significant pout. His hair brushes the edges of his lashes, needing a trim. But Sammy is not a high and tight kid. His hair is a rebellion he would not soon give up, of that I am sure._

_"You hungry?"_

_"Duh," he mumbles._

_"There's a Long John Silvers down the street," I suggest, mostly for his reaction. He hasn't stopped complaining about the houseboat since we arrived._

_"Gag! No way, man. No fish."_

_"Fine," I sigh, sheathing the knife reluctantly. _

_I stand, intending to cross to what passes for a kitchen in the dilapidated interior when a sudden wave rocks the house, slamming it against the pier with a harsh howl of wind and sending me tumbling against Sam's small body._

_"What the fu—"_

_"Boys!" Dad's bellow is frightening and welcome. I feel the surge of relief and energy that always floods my senses at the sound of my father's voice._

_"Dad!"_

_"Get out here! On the double—MOVE!"_

_I stumble as the boat house rocks again, my arms swinging instinctively for purchase, and feel Sam's hands grab my wrist, small fingers clinging tightly._

_"Dean, what's goin' on?"_

_Hurricane, I think. Has to be._

_"SAM! DEAN! NOW!"_

_I hadn't noticed the darkness closing in, warning of the approaching storm. I hadn't noticed the build-up of wind. I hadn't noticed the growing ferocity of rain. But all were now pelting the fragile houseboat with tenacious anger, and my brother was in the middle of it._

_"C'mon, Sammy," I yell at him over the storm rocking my eardrums like Angus Young. _

_I twist my hand around so that I am holding his wrist now and tug him close to me. He is small enough to fit beneath my arm, his head tucked into my chest as we stagger toward the door and Dad's voice._

_I turn the knob, pushing the door slightly into the void, and gasp as the wind rips it from my hand, narrowly missing decapitating Dad as it flies into the slate-black sky. Rain rushes in, pelting us with viciously cold splats of water, soaking us. I cling to the frame, bracing my legs apart for balance._

_"Get your brother outside and get to the car," Dad orders me, his dark eyes hot with panic and purpose. I take in his disheveled clothes, the blood on his hands, and an old-school bow and arrow clutched in his grip. I realize in that moment that this is no hurricane._

_"Dad—"_

_"Don't argue with me, Dean!"_

_"Dean, what's happening?" Sam asks me. Always me. Looks at me. Hair wet and clinging, eyes large and scared, face pale. _

_"We're getting the hell outta here, that's what's happening," I answer him, pulling his fisted hands from my shirt, and thrusting him forward._

_Into the gap of water between the house and the pier. Into the empty space between places of safety. _

_I stare stupidly at the churning surface of the water closing over Sam's head as the houseboat rocks again, slamming against the pier and tossing me to the wooden slats on my ineffective ass. I land hard, air vacating my body in a speedy exodus._

_"Where's Sam!" Dad yells at me, his eyes tearing from a vaguely human-like shape standing _on_ the water to me, then back. _

_I stare, trying to breathe. It is as if the air has become blades, slicing my mouth, cutting my throat, shredding my lungs. _

_"DEAN!"_

_Dad grips my wet shirt in one strong fist and with minimal effort pulls me to my feet. _

_"Where's your brother?!"_

_"He f-fell…" I stutter, shame at my trembling lips turning my stomach into a block of ice. "I got it," I promise. "I got him."_

_Dad releases me and turns to face the water. And the…thing. I scramble to the edge of the pier—away from the missile-like houseboat—and with one final glance at Dad, I dive into the churning water, an image of him curled over a flaming arrow burned into my brain. _

_I surface into a maelstrom, calling for my brother. The waves slam me, water climbing into my nose, my eyes, filling my ears. I somehow hear his voice, a small, tinny echo of sound that cuts into the heart of me. I instinctively follow the sound. Sam is beneath the pier, clinging to a support beam, his face lifted to the wood, sobbing my name._

_"I'm here," I gasp, swimming up to him. "I'm here, Sammy."_

_"Gotta get out, Dean, gotta get out."_

_"We're out," I assure him, wrapping one arm around his waist, the other around the beam, and hold on. "We're out."_

_"Of the w-water," he chatters. "Get out of the water."_

_"Wait, Sam," I say, clutching him tighter against me. His body is small and trembling and I am the idiot who lost him to the water. "We wait for Dad."_

_Teeth chattering, Sam nods quickly and blends his body with mine, holding onto me as I hold on to the pier. I feel my legs slowly turn to lead, my bones freezing in their flesh casing. I feel my fingers become brittle. I feel my brother trembling._

_I hear an odd, guttural groan, my father's curses, the shriek of the wind, but the only sound that matters to me is Sam's softly whispered chant of "We wait for Dad, we wait for Dad, we wait for Dad."_

_The sudden silence above us actually terrifies me. I want to call out Dad's name, to search for reassurance, but I wait. I wait for Dad. _

_"Dean!"_

_"Here!" I call, my numb hands going slack with relief as his heavy boots rumble down the pier above us, toward us. I hear his ragged breathing as he lies down on the wood, hanging over the edge, reaching for Sam, pulling him up and away from me._

_My arms feel oddly empty and I realize that I am letting go, unable to hold on to the pier with nothing to anchor me to a reason. I feel the water creeping up my neck, over my chin, filling my ears, and then, muffled as though calling me through sleep, Dad's voice is in my head._

_"Atta boy, Dean." _

_Arms are around me, pulling me into the air, setting me on the pier, rubbing life back into my chilled body._

_"You did good, you did good," Dad is saying._

_"We w-waited for you, D-Dad," Sam chatters. _

_"You did good," Dad says and pulls me upright and into his chest, my nose pressing closed against his shoulder. I feel the unmistakable form of Sam's body at my back as Dad grips us both tightly to him, his voice rolling across the fear slamming his heart against his ribs and into my cheek. _

_"You did good."_

* * *

"That was an _ala_?" Sam asked, standing with his left thigh resting against the Impala's taillight where he'd ended his pace as Dean's voice died away.

Dean kept his eyes down, shielding Sam from the force of his recollection, and studied his hands, stroking his thumb lightly over his callused palm, centering on the rough spot directly beneath his silver ring. He'd pinched his hand there a good many times when he first started wearing the ring.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Found out later when we were leaving."

Sam ran a finger over his upper lip. "I don't remember the storm."

Dean nodded. "You were… a little messed up by that whole thing." He blinked his eyes up at Sam, studying the set jaw line of his brother, remembering a much younger face, much larger eyes.

Sam pushed away from the car, his eyes tracking back to the small cemetery and, Dean knew, the after-image of the dispossessed bodies. "Was it like this one?"

Dean followed Sam's glance, nodding. "Yeah. Sudden and crazy."

"Did he, uh… y'know, tell you about it?" Sam looked back toward Dean, not quite at his eyes.

Dean heard what Sam wasn't asking. _Did he trust you, did he open up to you, did he include you… like he never did with me?_ It had become Sam's way of saying that he wanted to know as much as he could about the mystery that was their father, but was afraid of the answers he might get.

Dean shook his head, lightly rubbing the backs of his fingers along the scruff at his jawline. "I found the arrows when we were clearing out the houseboat. They had dried blood on them. I just… waited." He pushed away from his position on the trunk, turned, and closed the lid, moving stiffly around to the driver's side. He was chilled and sore, but they were both in one piece. Successful hunt. "Couple of nights later, I saw him writing in the journal. When I saw the word _dragon,_ I laughed."

Sam opened the passenger door, pulling up short. "You laughed?"

Dean dropped into the driver's seat with a punched-out breath. "Well, yeah. I mean, dude, _dragons_? They were Disney cartoons and storybook creatures as far as I knew."

Sam smirked. "Dad set you straight?"

Darting his tongue across his bottom lip and drawing it into his mouth, Dean nodded as the memory of his father's low rumble, like fingers plucking the strings of a bass guitar, slid through his ears.

_"Boy, there are things in this world that we might never see, but that doesn't mean they aren't real. You remember that, if you don't remember anything else. It's what we can't see that we need to be ready for."_

"He caught me looking, said I should know why we'd been there, told me about the _ala_." He shoved the keys into the ignition, pausing before turning them to catch the engine. "He said that evolution worked in our favor."

Dean twisted the keys; Bad Company's _Crazy Circles_ echoed through the interior of the car.

"Come again?" Sam shifted sideways in the seat, his long legs filling the space beneath the glove box, his slim fingers spreading across his knees in a position Dean recognized as _relaxed_ in the Book of Sam.

Dean shifted the gear to drive and glanced at his brother. "Komodo, Sam. Komodo Dragon."

"Komodo… Are you kidding me?"

"Nope. Snuck into a zoo, got what he needed."

"_Tell me _you didn't break into a zoo for this hunt," Sam groaned.

"What do think I am?" Dean replied, purposely not answering his uptight brother. He pressed the accelerator and the screech that greeted his ears drowned out Sam's bark of a laugh.

"Son of a bitch," Dean snarled, pulling the car free from the cover of trees. "I swear to God, Sam, if you messed with more than just her tires…"

"How many times do I have to remind you that it wasn't me?" Sam snapped, shaking his head and rolling his window down, propping his elbow on the open frame.

"Right, right," Dean growled. "Trickster. Sly son of a bitch… not enough to send us on a wild goose chase, slam me against some chairs, and let the air out of her tires… Fucker had to go and mess with the fan belt."

"Maybe it's just broken," Sam grumbled.

Dean spared him an incensed glance as he pulled out onto the empty road. "It's _not_ broken. I rebuilt her myself."

"Things break, Dean," Sam huffed, turning his face to the night air.

"Not things that I fix," Dean returned, flicking the volume of the radio to the maximum level, drowning out the sound of the slipping fan belt.

Paul Rogers' silky voice declared, _Life is like a carousel… you aim for heaven, and you wind up in hell. To all the world you're livin' like a king, but you're just a puppet on a broken string.  
_

Dean curled his fingers around the steering wheel, drawing the bass beat of the music into him, letting his body rock with the feel of the drums, the caress of the night wind teasing his cheek from Sam's open window. His eyes took in the reflecting staccato of the yellow road dashes, guiding them into the night and into nowhere.

"You have any idea where we're going?" Sam yelled at him over the music.

Dean allowed himself a rueful smile that Sam wasn't complaining about the decibel of the sound, simply allowing Dean his temper tantrum that things were _not right_ with the Impala.

"No."

"Think we should have some idea?"

"Why?"

"'Cause—" Sam stopped, mouth parted, lips working to form a word, a reason, any explanation as to _why_ they had to have a plan.

Dean waited.

"'Cause, uh, you're going to want to get that fan belt fixed." Sam's shoulders visibly relaxed.

"I'll just stop at the next town," Dean shrugged.

"Oh."

When the DJ came on, Dean reached down and grabbed a scaled-down box of cassettes, having started to slowly replace his music collection after the accident. With one hand on the base of the steering wheel, his eyes darted between the dark road and the scrawled names on the spine of the cassettes.

"Dean…"

Dean fingered the plastic, sensing more than hearing the click of the casings as he looked for something to draw his attention from the now, and from his memories. Glancing up, he saw the hood of the Impala eat the edge of the yellow line.

"Dean!"

"I got it."

"For cryin' out loud. Let me." Sam reached for the box of tapes.

"I said I got it!" Dean snapped, jerking the car slightly. The wheels crossed back over the yellow line, into the safety of their lane. "Just need something else to—"

"Dean."

"What?" Dean muttered, irritated that Sam read him, that Sam knew how to see through the mask, that he could hear discovery in his brother's voice.

"What else happened?"

Dean straightened up, grabbing the wheel with his free hand as Sam rifled through the sparse collection of cassette tapes.

"What are you taking about?" Dean kept his voice purposefully even, tightening his jaw as he pressed his lips closed on the end of his words.

"Did something else happen back then—when Dad fought off the _ala_?"

"No," Dean answered, too quickly. He winced inwardly as Sam pounced on that tell.

"Tell me."

"Put in some music, Sam."

"_Tell _me." Sam sat back, letting the radio commercials poke through the air like the sharp end of an ice-pick at the base of Dean's skull. He crossed his arms, leaning against the door, staring at Dean with a dead-eyed, stubborn look that said _I can do this all night_.

"Sam…"

"Dean."

"Dammit, just put in some music!"

"What happened?"

"You were there."

"I was ten."

"Not my fault you didn't pay attention."

"Yes, it was," Sam threw back at him, his words reverberating through the sudden, quick silence as the commercials ended and Staind's _Please_ beat out the quiet.

"What?" Dean looked over at him quickly, then back to the road. The quick flash of Sam's hazel eyes in the glow of the dashboard lights tightened Dean's heart, setting him on an edge of dread. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't remember because you made sure I was kept out of it."

"I was protecting you, Sam."

"I know," Sam shifted, turning away from Dean, his voice softer as Aaron Lewis pleaded, _Tell me please, who the fuck did you want me to be? Was it something that I couldn't see? Never knew this would be so political..._

"It's not important, Sam," Dean relented, remembering the way his brother shook, the fear in his large eyes, the confusion on his father's face. "It was a long time ago."

"It's important enough to get you all…edgy."

"I'm not edgy."

"The hell you aren't."

"What makes you think I'm edgy?"

"Maybe the fact that I can't hear myself _breathe_ over this freakin' _music_?!" Sam yelled, finally giving in and turning the radio off. "Jeeze, Dean."

Dean worked his jaw, his ears hissing, the squeal of the loose fan belt happy to fill the silence. He sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to be able to handle that sound for very long.

"What's the nearest town?"

"What do I look like, Rand McNally?" Sam returned.

Dean lifted a brow, glancing to the side. "You look like someone about to be walking, that's what you look like."

"Fine," Sam huffed, opening the glove box and pulling out a crumpled map.

Dean reached up and flicked on the dome light, darting his attention from the road to Sam and back.

"Looks like the nearest place is… uh… Lynch Heights. 'Bout ten miles up," Sam's long finger followed the thin green line on the map. "Looks big enough to have a garage or something."

"Okay," Dean nodded, turning off the light.

He suppressed a shiver of weakened muscles. They hadn't stopped moving since dropping Bobby off after they took out the Trickster. Sleeping in the car, washing up at rest stops, eating at gas station diners, the road had become their home and the job the cover that kept them from growling too loudly at each other.

The Trickster may have amplified annoyances, but it didn't fabricate them from thin air. There was nothing like living in his brother's pocket to make him see the things in himself that he hated the most. Dean heard Sam's sigh as he re-folded the map, felt the weariness roll from his brother and slide across the Impala to seep into him, joining with aches begging to be recognized.

They couldn't keep this up forever.

"You can pick the music."

Sam clicked the glove box shut, tossing him a surprised glance. "You feeling okay?"

"Fine, why?"

"What happened to _driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole_?"

Dean's mouth relaxed into a genuine grin. "So, you do pay attention."

"When it matters," Sam nodded. "I do when it matters."

_Always matters,_ Dean's inner voice whispered as Sam reached for the radio tuner. He shifted stiffly in his seat, the muscles stretching along his ribs stiffening with stillness, the bruises offered a chance to deepen, digging dark purple blood into the thin shield of his skin, rolling discomfort—he'd not yet call it pain—through his system that he resolutely ignored.

The subtly sexy, melancholy beat of Soundgarden's _Overfloater_ traded silence in for distraction as Dean watched the roadside for the Lynch Heights exit. Sam drummed his fingers against his thigh, his face turned away, eyes on the blurred terrain invisible in the night. Dean settled against the seat, falling into the backbeat as his memories took over.

_

* * *

_

South Carolina, 1994

_"Easy, Sammy," I rush in a shaky, whispered gasp. "Hey, it's okay."_

_"Gotta get out, Dean, gotta get out."_

_His arms are so thin. My hands seem to shrink them as I grab hold and pull him back into the room. I look over my shoulder, fear a lump at the base of my throat as I see Dad's tired eyes reflecting the blue light from the muted TV as he stands in the doorway of the adjoining room, staring at us with confusion._

_"C'mon, Sam," I encourage, pulling him close to me so that he stumbles over his feet, tripping on mine, falling into me. I close the door, still holding him with one hand, and slide the chain lock into its notch. "Back to bed."_

_"Gotta get out, Dean…"_

_He is trembling, his eyes young, wide, and unseeing. I know he's still asleep, but he seems so aware that I question myself. _

_"Sam?"_

_"Can't wait for Dad… gotta get out."_

_"We're out, Sammy," I reassure him. "We're okay. Dad got us out."_

_Sam is staring past me, not at me. I turn him, guide him to the bed furthest from the motel room door. My bed. It had been our habit to allow him to sleep close to the bathroom as he is an early riser. No more. I decide in that moment that regardless of the layout of our motel room, I will sleep between him and whatever waits for us on the outside._

_"We're okay?" He asks me, cloudy eyes starting to come around, starting to wake. _

_"We're okay," I repeat, easing him back against the pillow, rolling him to his side, pulling the blankets up, tucking them around him. "Go back to sleep."_

_His eyes shut obediently, and I stand still, staring down at him, waiting._

_"What was that about?" Dad's voice is a soft accusation. I don't hear curiosity. I hear _how did you let him get outside? _I hear _I trusted you with him, Dean.

_"Nothing," I say. "He was just sleepwalking. I got it."_

_"Yeah?" _

_I turn, meet Dad's eyes, watch as confusion drains and a measure is taken. A measure of me. I am fourteen years old and no longer a child._

_"I got it, Dad," I assure him. He holds my eyes a moment longer, then blinks slowly, turning in the doorway and heading back to his room, his bed._

_I take a breath, feeling a new weight in the air. Sam had always been mine. My job. But I feel it differently now. I feel responsibility chasing the heels of obligation. I feel duty frame the love I'd always known. I feel a future slip away and another slide smoothly into place._

_I roll my neck, working to release sudden tension, aware that it is now a permanent part of who I am. I sink slowly down on the outside bed, roll to my hip and wrap the blankets around me._

_The pillow smells like Sam._

* * *

"There it is," Sam calls out, causing Dean to jump free of his memories. "Lynch Heights."

"What's… Slaughter Beach?" Dean asks, pulling off the highway, not surprised that there's not another car in sight. They were square in the middle of nowhere, heading nowhere, leaving nowhere. At the intersection of been there, done that.

Sam shrugged, sucking in his bottom lip. "Dunno," he glanced sideways at Dean. "Sounds kinda like our type a place, though, huh?"

"Dude, that's just sad," Dean replied, but felt his mouth curl up into a smile regardless, knowing truth when he heard it. He winced as the Impala screamed at him as he accelerated through a green light at the base of the exit. "Damn, I hate that sound."

"Tomorrow, we find a garage."

Dean nodded. "I get dibs on the first shower," he said.

"Hey! You got the first shower last night," Sam protested.

"Gotta be quick 'round here, Sammy," Dean grinned, turning into the parking lot of the first motel he came to, a _Vacancy_ sign blinking in yellow neon beneath an image of a fisherman cloaked in a rain slicker battling waves in an effort to reach a lighthouse. The bulb in the lighthouse was an eye-searing blue. "You check us in."

"Which card you wanna use?" Sam asked.

"Uh," Dean reached into his back pocket, came up empty, frowned, swung his arm over the seat and snagged his leather jacket, then retrieved a gray Visa from the inside pocket. "How 'bout Ian Willis?"

Sam snatched the card from Dean's fingers. "How's Ian's credit?"

"So far, so good," Dean grinned, bouncing his eyebrows. _See the mask, not the pain._ _See what I show, not what I feel._

Sam shoved the door open with his elbow, the familiar creak covering his soft chuckle. Dean rubbed his neck, feeling the knots there that he was never without, and watched his brother cross in front of the Impala's headlights, the beams hitting Sam's knees and catching his bare knuckles as his hands swung loosely at his sides.

_You gotta promise me…_

Dean shook his head, the unbidden echo of Sam's drunken plea filtering between the cracks in his wall.

_Promise me…_

Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, pulling a breath into his lungs and working up the mantra to banish memories. Promising Sam that he would kill him—echoing the order John had left with him—had been the only way he'd been able to quiet his desperate brother.

His brother staring up at him with the same large eyes, the same unseeing stare. Reaching for him with the same clumsy grip, trembling with the same fear: that he wouldn't be able to get out. Get away. Get free. Of danger. Of his destiny. Of evil.

Dean jumped when the knock of knuckles against glass broke into his dark thoughts.

"Got the last double," Sam called through the closed door.

Dean pocketed the keys, pulling the Bowie knife from its sheath beneath the seat, and stepped from the Impala, heading around to the trunk with the slam of the driver's door punching the silence of the night.

"Weapons?" Sam asked, lifting the trunk lid and shifting the bow and arrows over to grab his duffel.

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "We got what we need."

Sam tipped his chin up in a nod, waited until Dean grabbed his bag, then closed the trunk. They turned as one, heading for the room.

"You better not use all the hot water," Sam grumbled as he crossed the darkened room, automatically heading for the bed furthest from the door.

Dean watched him, pulling his knowing smile inside, tucking it away where it was safe, and worked his lips around the expected snarky comeback.

www

Coffee was intoxicating.

He could clearly understand his brother's addiction to the beverage, and would go to his grave with silence his one marker of testimony to the same. Dean enjoyed giving him a hard time about his half-caf, decaffeinated mocha with a twist of lemon too much for Sam to burst his bubble and inform him that cream and sugar did it for him just fine, thanks.

Sam slid his fingers down the grainy edge of the local newspaper, wrapping the dull drone of the coffee-house voices around him like a warm blanket, comfortable in the familiarity of strangers. When nowhere was home, home was everywhere. He had yet to find a small town without a local coffee shop. He had yet to find a local coffee shop without it's share of hurried, gasping gossip, newspapers printed on frayed recycled paper, and harried baristas anxious for eleven a.m. and the end of the morning rush.

Listening to the hum of Lynch Heights in the morning, Sam scanned the newspaper, knowing what he was looking for, eyes like a search engine. _Unexplained, locked room, no murder weapon, strange noises_… they all signaled something worth looking into.

And they _needed_ something to look into. The _ala_ had been a fluke. A chance. One in a million. They hadn't even meant to stop in Delaware. But it had effectively taken them past the pain of _I was awake for some of it_ and through the ridiculous tangle of _you're too precious for this world_ into a moment where they were once again side-by-side fighting evil. Once again hunting things. Once again saving people.

"Get you something else?"

Sam looked up, surprised, as the hard bite of the Eastern accent bounced against his ears. "Sorry, what?"

"Where're you from, honey?" The middle-aged woman, standing with hip cocked, glass carafe balanced in her gold-ring adorned right hand, studied Sam with shrewd brown eyes, pale lips pursed.

"Uh… Texas," Sam drawled, needing more of the beverage she held hostage before he could come up with a better story.

"Sure and I knew you weren't from nearby," she nodded. "Coffee?"

"Please. Thank you, ma'am," Sam ticked up his smile, feeling his dimples dig into her defenses.

"Don't you 'ma'am' me, now. You passing through?"

Sam swallowed, suddenly missing Dean's smooth charm and slow eyes. "On a road trip," he said. "With my brother."

"Your brother as pretty as you?" she asked, smiling slyly.

Sam blinked. "Uh…"

"Never you mind, sweetie," she patted his hand. "You just read your paper. No one'll bother you."

With that cryptic statement, she turned, sashaying back to the counter and the line of people. It was then that Sam realized their conversation had been observed by at least ten sets of eyes. Swallowing, he offered the faces turned his way an insincere smile, then returned his attention to the newspaper.

_Dean, you had better have found that fan belt or—_

His internal tirade was halted abruptly as his eyes caught on the words for which he'd been scanning. Words that could offer them a purpose. Words that gave them a reason for being.

www

_God_, he loved music.

He loved the cadence, the thrumming beat, the dance of nimble fingers on taut strings, the escape, the feelings… the fucking _emotion_ injected into words that taken apart from the melody would be empty and hollow. Dean pressed the oversized earphones tighter against his head, drawing in the sound, letting it roll through him, churning his blood, beating his heart.

His eyes closed, Dean rocked forward to his toes, back to his heels, lost. Lost in a time long before he was a glimmer, long before he was an idea. Lost in a time when his mother was innocent and his father was a soldier. Lost in a time when the reality lurking in the dark crevasses of the world were relegated to ravings of lunatics and writings of the inspired.

Standing at the back of the small record store, walls framed with CD displays, floors covered with wooden crates of albums, ceiling papered with concert posters, Dean hummed low, uncaring who heard, uncaring who watched. There was no one in this moment but him, nothing but the magic of Page and Plant and _Achilles Last Stand._

_"Sending off a glancing kiss, to those who claim they know, below the streets that steam and hiss, the devil's in his hole…"_

He felt a presence seconds before the hand dropped heavy on his shoulder. It took control almost beyond his measure for Dean to _not _squeal like a girl and jump three feet in the air. As it was, every muscle in his body tightened and released in a dizzying rush as he yanked the earphones from his head and turned with a jerk.

"Jesus Christ!"

"You're gonna go deaf!" Sam exclaimed.

"Dude!" Dean pressed a hand against his chest, recovering quickly. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I've been looking for you everywhere," Sam grumbled.

"Well, ease up! You found me."

"Listening to music in a tiny record store," Sam flicked his hand into the empty space between them.

"It's _Achilles_!"

"I don't care if it's Mozart," Sam narrowed his eyes. "It's too freakin' loud! I could hear it from the entrance, Dean."

"You're turning into an old lady, Sammy," Dean slid a bored look toward his brother and started to lift the earphones back to his head.

"Hey, hang on," Sam rested a hand on his wrist. "Did you find the garage?"

Dean nodded. "They don't open until noon." He tried to return the headphones once more.

"Wait," Sam said, pressing them back down.

"What?!" Dean grumbled impatiently. "Zeppelin just released an anthology, Sam."

Sam darted his head forward, his eyes bland. "Zeppelin? As in the same group that's been around since God was a boy?"

"An _anthology_, Sam," Dean repeated, slowly, sure that if he articulated, Sam would see the importance of such a monumental event.

"I think I found a job," Sam said, grabbing the earphones from Dean's hands and thrusting the newspaper in the vacant space between his fingers.

Dean's eyes mournfully followed the departure of the earphones as _Babe I'm Gonna Leave You_ danced in a tinny echo of salty sex through the air. He sighed, watching Sam place them back on the hook for the next user, then dropped his eyes to the paper in his hand.

"_PTA Approves Increase in Lunch Charges_?" Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Those bastards. You're right, Sam. Grab the holy water."

Sam rolled his eyes, a motion Dean would find amusing if he didn't see it multiple times a day, and flipped the paper over. 'There," he said, stabbing a small article with his index finger.

"_Local Man Sees Spooks,_" Dean read. He pressed his lips together, raising his eyes slowly to meet his brother's earnest gaze. "You're kidding, right?"

"Read the article, Dean," Sam frowned, stepping aside as another customer wandered through the classic rock collection of CDs.

Sighing, Dean scanned the article, lips moving rapidly as he absorbed the information. "So… he thinks his wife is haunting him, huh?"

"Yeah, and he told the cops," Sam shook his head, frowning sadly.

"Poor bastard."

"I know," Sam rested his hands loosely on his hips. "They didn't waste any time labeling him a crackpot."

"You think there's enough here to check out?" Dean kept his chin down, lifting his eyes from the paper to study Sam's face. He was staring blindly across the stacks of music, his gaze inward, thoughts translucent to the discerning eye of a knowing brother. Dean heard the quiet echo of Sam's slurred confession brought on by too many deaths and too much alcohol.

_The more people I save, the more I can change…change my destiny. _

"Yeah, maybe," Sam lifted a shoulder in an exaggerated shrug, forcing a look of nonchalance, radiating need so strongly Dean wanted to take a step back.

_I wanted to believe...so badly that... It's so damn hard to do this…what we do…all alone, you know? There's so much evil out in the world, Dean, I feel like I could drown in it. And when I think about my destiny, when I think about how I could end up..._

Dean nodded once, shaking free the memory of Sam's broken voice, smacking his brother lightly on the chest with the backs of his fingers. "Okay, Research Boy, go… do your thing and find out where this, uh… George Cooper lives."

Sam tilted his head, his lips curving down in an exaggerated frown. "What are you gonna do?"

Dean felt the corners of his eyes pull up as he reached for the ear phones. "Listen to some _Levee_, then get a fan belt for my girl."

Sam folded his lips in on a suppressed grin. "You're such a softie."

Dean settled the ear phones on his head, tapping the arrow on the CD player until the low beat of _When The Levee Breaks_ rocked through the hiss. Raising his eyebrows at Sam, he asked silently, _What are you still doing here?_ Sam rolled his eyes, batting at the air with a returned, _You're impossible_.

He turned and lumbered from the music store. Dean watched Sam pause at the door as if wanting to turn and say something, but then he pushed the door open and headed toward where they'd left the Impala. Looking down at the newspaper still clutched in his hand, Dean read the article again.

_Wife of 40 years died suddenly… hears 'their song' at night… cabinet doors standing open when he left them closed… lights on when he's turned them off…_

The article spoke of George Cooper with sarcasm, writing his claims off to nothing more than the lonely ravings of a widower. Dean narrowed his eyes at the last paragraph.

_The Cooper's ward, a blind girl in her mid-twenties, couldn't be reached for questioning. Neighbors claim that the girl is a recluse and rarely, if ever, is seen outside of the house. She apparently came to live with the Coopers last year when her parents were killed in the same accident that blinded her._

With Zeppelin rolling through his system, Dean looked back toward the entrance, Sam's image a negative burned against the backs of his eyes.

_

* * *

_

South Carolina, 1994

_"You just got back," I protest in a stage whisper, Sam asleep with his head in my lap as Dad's black Impala rumbles across the dark road to somewhere else. "Why you gotta leave again?"_

_"I found something, Dean," Dad tells me, his eyes flicking up to the mirror, meeting mine, then returning to the road. "You know I have to go after it."_

_I lick my lips, knowing what I'm about to suggest will pull a snarl from my father, but unable to do less with Sam's body heavy against mine. "Take us to Pastor Jim's, Dad."_

_He looks at me in the mirror again, surprised. "What?"_

_"Don't stop at another motel. Take us to Pastor Jim's."_

_"Thought you told me you hated it there," Dad raises a brow, and I hear amusement in his voice. It triggers something in me that I recognize as anger._

_"I do."_

_"Then why do you want to go?"_

_"Sam needs it," I say simply._

_Dad drops his chin and I see his shoulders square. I want to say more. I want to point out that Sam hasn't slept a full night since the storm demon. I want to remind him that I had to sleep in front of the door last night. I want to tell him that I'd been scared, too. I'd been cold, too. _

_"Okay," he says, diffusing my anger with a simple word of agreement._

_"Okay?"_

_Dad nods, meeting my eyes in the mirror again. "Okay," he repeats softly._

_I feel myself relax against the soft leather of the rear seat, letting the arms of the only true home I knew hold me in the darkness. Dad turns on the radio and Zeppelin's soft beat fills the car with a comfortable warmth._

_"Always thought this was a sexy song," Dad says softly._

_"Dad," I protest, looking out through the side window into the night._

_"Kissed my first girl to Kashmir," he reveals, amused, it seems, by my vocal discomfort._

_Me, too, I want to say, but keep that quiet. Dad needs to know that I can clean and fire any gun he hands me. He needs to know that I can heft and balance an array of knives. He needs to know that I can take care of Sam and me for days at a time. He needs to know that I can avoid the detection of authorities._

_He doesn't need to know that Kelly was the name of the blonde in fifth grade with the shy blue eyes. He doesn't need to know that Kashmir was playing from the window of the teacher's lounge when we snuck out back to taste beer she'd swiped from her mom's fridge and ended up tasting the soft, fleshy feel of each other's lips. He doesn't need to know that she cried when we left two weeks later. He doesn't need to know that I wanted to._

_"He'll outgrow it, Dean," Dad says suddenly, pulling my mind from the memory of kisses._

_"Huh?"_

_"This sleepwalking thing," Dad says, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture I find myself emulating. "He'll get over it."_

_"I know," I say, not believing him. It didn't matter to me if he outgrew it or not._

_Sam was mine. And as far as I was concerned, nothing bad was going to happen to him while I was around._

* * *

Her name tag said Sadie.

Her lashes were bare and framed the dark-chocolate of her eyes like smudges of charcoal, hovering low in a sleepy stare that caught him by surprise. As the silver rings on her right hand reflected the light from the afternoon sun, Dean let his eyes absorb the way the jeans she wore hugged her curves and the white button up shirt parted to reveal a tease of cleavage. She had three freckles between her breasts that looked like an arrow. Pointing down.

"That'll be 15.47," she said, her accent clipped with the rhythm of the East coast, her cupid-bow mouth quirking as she caught his eyes lingering.

"Right," Dean pulled a twenty from his pocket, stained with the sweat from the nervous poker player he'd taken it from, and laid it on the counter, keeping his fingers on the edge of the bill until she pulled it away.

"You boys need anything else?" Sadie handed him his change, tipping her chin toward Sam waiting by the Impala, talking on his cell phone. "I mean, you are…together, right?" Her tone implied uncertainty and interest.

Dean grinned, glancing down. "Yeah," he said. He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. "He's my brother."

"Oh!" Sadie's eyes lit up, flushing her cheeks a soft red and the corner of her mouth curled back invitingly. "Well, then…"

"Dean," he supplied, tipping his chin up to shield his eyes, watching as hers took him in.

"Dean," she laughed. "I'm Sadie."

"I know," he said on a rakish smile, then with a lingering glance, turned on his heel and headed outside.

Sam's head came up at the sound of the door and he held up a hand to pause Dean's immediate questions. Dean frowned, _Who is it?_ Sam mouthed, _Bobby_. Dean nodded and grabbed a pink shop towel from the backseat, then moved to the hood of the Chevy, only to realize he'd left the fan belt on the counter with Sadie.

"Dean!"

Her amused, citrus-bright voice drew his attention. He caught Sam's glance out of his periphery and dismissed the irritation he registered there.

"You forgot your belt," Sadie said, a laugh lighting up her dark eyes as she extended the belt toward him.

"So I did," Dean drawled, taking it from her slowly, letting his fingers brush hers, registering the softness of the skin there and knowing that light touch was the reason for the sudden intake of breath she tried to hide.

"You guys on your way then?" Sadie asked, her eyes falling to his mouth, then darting back up to his eyes.

Dean lifted a shoulder, glancing over at Sam as his brother clicked the cell phone closed, ending his call. "We actually thought we'd stop by and visit an old friend while we were in town."

"Oh?" Sadie shot a look at Sam, pulling her dark hair away from her face and holding it in a loose fist. "Who?"

Dean set his expression in an earnest question mark, knowing well enough that in a town the size of Lynch Heights, the girl manning the counter at the only garage in a fifty mile radius would more than likely know just about everyone.

"George Cooper," he said. "You know him?"

"You're friends of George?" Sadie said, blinking in surprise. "Oh, wow, I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Sam spoke up, moving around the side of the Chevy to stand next to Dean.

"Well, no, I mean," Sadie released her hair to spread her hands open, then pulled it from her mouth as the wind tossed strands across her face. "I'm sorry about Camilla. If you know George, you knew Camilla and she… man, she was a sweet, sweet lady."

On cue, Dean and Sam dropped their eyes, nodding sadly. "Shame what happened," Dean said softly.

"Yeah, well, sure she was older and all, but," Sadie pressed her lips together, "she was always so healthy."

Sam shifted his feet. Dean chewed on his bottom lip.

"A heart attack just seemed so… unexpected," Sadie supplied on a sigh.

"Yeah," the brother's answered in unison, having the information they'd been waiting for.

"At least he's not alone, though," Dean offered, feeling Sam shift beside him, taking in the fact that Dean had picked up on a silent cue. Reading his brother's signals without actually _seeing_ him was something Dean took pride in.

Sadie's face clouded, her lips pulling close like she'd just tasted a lemon. "You mean Wren?"

Sam nodded. "She's gotta be some comfort."

Sadie looked away, working her jaw as if trying to decide the best way to break bad news. "Yeah, I suppose having another warm body around is something."

"Not a fan?" Dean hedged.

Sadie shrugged, looking back at Dean, her face closed, eyes dull with caution. "I don't have anything against her. Don't know her all that well, really."

Sam nodded while Dean watched Sadie shift her weight from one foot to the other. He wondered what she was hiding.

"Well, I won't keep you," she finally said. "Gotta get back to the counter or Hank'll have my ass."

"Can't let that happen," Dean grinned, his eyes dropping to her legs, then slowly drawing back up to her eyes.

"Um," Sadie tipped her head. "If you're gonna be around awhile, I work the evening shift at Judo's. It's basically a biker bar, but it's decent enough. Got a jukebox. Pool table…"

"Sounds like my kind of place," Dean grinned, dropping his chin and keeping his eyes on Sadie's.

"Well, good," Sadie grinned. "See you around, Dean."

"Count on it," Dean replied as she turned and jogged back to the garage, hips swaying rhythmically.

Dean tilted his head to watch her leave. "Nice."

"Seriously?" Sam pushed away from the car.

"What?" Dean asked, blinking innocently as he lifted the hood of the Impala, laying the shop towel over the grill.

"Is there like a shot they can give you or something?" Sam stood close, peering down into the engine as Dean worked the broken fan belt free.

"Hey," Dean handed the broken piece to his brother, then wiped his greasy hands on his thighs. "Do we or do we not know more about this job of yours than we did this morning."

"This job of _mine_?" Sam took the belt from Dean and rested his leg on the grill of the Impala. "Thought this was a _family_ business."

Dean pulled the cardboard packaging from the new fan belt, then began to wedge it in place. "It is," he grunted, his head buried in the engine, his nose filled with the scent of grease and heat and power. "But you found this one."

Sam turned away, his reply muted by the depths of metal.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Sam turned back to him, his voice sullen.

Dean pulled out from under the hood, one problem solved. He checked quickly, automatically, that Sam's fingers were clear, then slammed the hood shut, turning to focus on the next problem.

"You gonna be pissy or productive?" he asked, wiping his hands on the towel.

Sam frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You have that _I'm gonna argue with you no matter what_ tone," Dean lifted a shoulder, forcing nonchalance, acting as if he could let Sam's attitude roll free and settle in the nothing that sat between them. "Just wanted to know where you stand is all."

"What's with you?" Sam drew his brows together, his lip curling.

"Nothing," Dean pulled his head back, eyes bland, expression passive, stomach burning.

"You're acting like that damn Trickster is still… around." Sam settled his hands low on his hips, hazel eyes boring into his brother.

Dean took a breath. Then another. Sam was right. He'd been looking for a reason for them to be off-beat. Looking for a reason to want to take another swing at Sam. He wanted to not need to be so in synch with his younger brother. He wanted to see where Sam ended and he began.

And he couldn't.

Their lives had created a unity that he now depended on. And the idea that Dad could be right—that Sam's destiny was to become something Dean would have to kill to save—physically hurt him. The simple truth of it was, there was no _Dean_ without _Sam_ and right now, that pissed him off.

"What did Bobby want?" he asked, changing the subject.

"He was checking on us."

"He was?" Dean felt his face soften.

"Yeah. Wanted to, uh…" Sam lifted a shoulder, looking up at his brother through apologetic eyes. "Make sure we weren't killing each other."

Dean grinned ruefully. Bobby had been an adult on the fringe of their lives growing up. Just one of John's friends, a name mentioned in passing until circumstance forced them on his doorstep. He'd been _Uncle Bobby_ for Sam, and _Damn That Singer_ for John. He'd been watcher and watched. Protector and protected. Hunter and friend.

And Dean loved the old man simply because he answered his damn phone.

Dean took a breath. "You ready to go check out your—this—job?"

Sam stared at him a moment, assessing, weighing, thoughts bouncing off the backs of his eyes and leaving question marks in their wake. Dean watched it happen, waited for the fallout.

"How are we gonna do this one?" Sam asked, curling his fingers into fists, then releasing them in an effort to calm himself.

Dean knew next would come a subtle finger-shake, then a quick bounce on the balls of his feet. His brother's habits were as well-known to him as his own. They were something he counted on, something he leaned on, something he _knew._

Even as an adult, Sam was his, and he was proud of that fact.

"You want to be Mulder or Scully?" Dean asked, his face folding back in a relaxed, sunny grin. Mask in place.

"I got a choice?" Sam asked, returning the grin.

www

"Quit tugging on it."

"It's too tight."

"Hold still and I'll fix it."

"I can do it myself!"

"Well, then quit whining and do it already!"

Dean's lip curled as he met his brother's eyes in the motel mirror suspended on the wall over the wide double dresser. Sam stood behind him and to his left, deftly adjusting his tie and looking for all the world like the lawyer he'd wanted to be. His hair was slicked back, giving him a posh, serious appearance. His eyes were focused and intent. His mouth set in a grim line.

Dean pulled again on the too-tight knot of black, silky material at the base of his throat. His almost military-grade hair was fuzzy from towel-drying, and he was sweating from the weight of the suit jacket on his shoulders. He pulled a breath in through his nose, puffing it out through pursed lips, finally managing to loosen the knot and readjust the tie so that it fit snugly in his button-up white collar.

He reminded himself that he performed well under pressure. He reminded himself that lying was part of the job. He reminded himself that life was an act and the only thing that was real was standing behind him looking bored.

Turning from the mirror, Dean grabbed his .45, tucking it into his waistband. He picked up the fake IDs from the top of the dresser, having selected their cover story before returning to the motel to change into their 'costumes.' He tossed a slim black ID and badge to Sam, who caught it mid-air and slid it into his breast pocket.

Dean flipped his open, glancing at the name inside. The last time they'd used these it had been to fool Ronald Reznick into telling them about his 'Mandroid.' _Poor Ron_. _This one has to go better than a dead believer and an agent on our asses._ Sighing, Dean shoved the ID into his breast pocket, knowing he'd have to time the reveal of this false persona at the same moment as his brother.

Sam pulled on his overcoat, completing the look. He handed Dean the smaller coat, waiting patiently as Dean shrugged into it. For a brief moment, they stared at each other, tension and judgment dancing on the edges of their periphery, waiting for a chance to shove between the brothers.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Dean rolled his neck and shook his fingers out. "It's 106 miles to Chicago. We've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses."

He quirked his mouth, letting his best Dan Akroyd impression tumble free.

Sam licked his lips, one eyebrow bouncing in amusement. "Hit it."

Dean grinned, then turned toward the motel door, letting his chin lead his motion. "Told you I look like one of the Blues Brothers in this getup," Dean grumbled good-naturedly.

Sam pulled the motel room door shut and pocketed the keys. "Dude, no one is going to buy Paranormal FBI Agent if we show up in grease-smudged jeans and flannel shirts."

Dean glanced at him across the hood of the car. "All I'm saying is," he pulled the door open, pausing before sinking inside. "You pull off the whole suit look better."

Sam lifted a disbelieving brow. "You're just dragging your heels with this hunt."

Dean sat down, pulling the door shut, then shoved the keys in the ignition. "What if crazy is just crazy, Sam?"

"Dean, he was describing classic signs of spiritual interference."

Turning the car on, Dean frowned at the radio as The Rolling Stones' _Paint It Black_ hummed through the car.

"He could have seen that on Ghost Hunters," Dean turned the volume down and shifted his elbow over the back of the seat to reverse from the lot.

"If you're so dead set against it," Sam turned to him, "then why are you going to see him?"

Dean faced forward once more, his eyes skimming over Sam's stubborn face as he did so. _Because you believe, Sam. _"I'm not dead set against it," he said, pressing the accelerator flat and gunning forward onto the road. "I just think that we should be careful is all. Not just…believe."

Mick lamented in the silence between them. _Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts. It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black…_

"So… I guess that makes you the red-headed woman this time," Sam said slowly, a grin softening his accusation.

Dean barked out a surprised laugh, curling his fingers lightly around the steering wheel. "Okay, give me the skinny on George Cooper," he relented as they headed toward the Cooper residents in Slaughter Beach. "What did you find out?"

"Not much more than what the article and your girlfriend, Sadie, told us," Sam reached into the glove box and pulled out some hand-written notes he'd stuffed there just before they changed their clothes. "Camilla Cooper died of a heart attack at a church picnic about six weeks ago. George started calling the police about her ghost a couple of weeks after that."

"What did he think they were going to do?"

Sam shrugged. "Lots of people think the police are supposed to fix everything."

Dean sighed and shook his head. "What about this… blind girl?"

"Wren Demeter. Her parents were killed in some freak accident that left her with hysterical blindness."

Dean's laugh punched the air. "So… what she… cried herself blind?"

"No," Sam shook his head and glanced up. "You want to turn here. Hysterical blindness is a condition where you go blind due to a psychotic break or trauma, but with no damage to the eyes."

"So, she can really see?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "But she doesn't want to."

"Wonder what happened to her parents?"

"Couldn't find that out," Sam folded the paper and shoved it back in the glove box. "But George and Camilla took her in so that she didn't have to go to some home or something. Guess she didn't have any other relatives."

"Hmm," Dean chewed on his bottom lip in thought. "Sounds a little too…"

"Clean."

"Yeah."

"That's what I thought, too."

"Think Camilla's haunting someone other than George?"

"Well, from everything I could find out—go right here—George and Camilla were the perfect couple," Sam smoothed his hair back as the house came into view. "In love, devoted, no skeletons in the closet, no secrets of any kind."

"Everybody has secrets, Sam," Dean mumbled, remembering the tears in John's eyes as he leaned in close to whisper his last order into Dean's ear, remembering the cold dread that had wrapped around his own heart and shook free through his fingertips as he relayed those words to his brother. He pulled the Impala over on the side of the road opposite the house. "Okay, so… you ready to do this thing?"

"Just answer me one thing," Sam said, grabbing Dean's sleeve and halting his exit. "If this hunt hadn't been convenient… would you have done it?"

Dean frowned, watching his brother's eyes carefully. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, this ghost… the _ala_… we just kinda fell on them. Do you still want to…quit?"

Dean sighed, looking out through the front window at the darkening sky. Evening drew close, filtering graying light through the overhang of trees that sheltered the car and gave the house a secretive look.

"No, Sam," he said finally. "I don't want to quit. This is all I know. I just… I want you to be…" He looked over at his brother, leveling his eyes. "Safe. I'm… I'm just tired of destiny and demons and all that shit. I just want to salt and burn and… ride off into the freakin' sunset."

"You don't think I want that?"

"I don't _know_ what you want," Dean returned, his voice even, low. "I don't think _you_ know what you want."

Sam pulled his lips in, looking closer to tears than Dean had seen him since Connecticut.

"So, what do we do?" Sam asked, sounding five, sounding hopeful and trusting and scared all at once.

"We cowboy up, go in there, and figure out why some old guy's dead wife is keeping him up at night." Dean let his lips pull away from his teeth, his smile hesitating before it reached his eyes. "We do the job. Just like always."

Sam nodded.

"Trust me, Sam," Dean said, reaching out and squeezing his brother's shoulder. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said, opening his door. "I know."

www

The house was white. Mostly. Sam could see paint peeling in large strips on the wooden boards flanking the wide front porch. The wind lazily tossed a porch swing against the side of the house, the coppery-colored rusted chains creaking quietly under the cacophony of wind chimes.

Sam shared his brother's low whistle of wonder as they slowly climbed the four worn steps leading up to the screen-covered front door. Dozens of wind chimes hung from the porch ceiling, all with a small, carved bird as the weight that bounced the tune from the wooden chimes. Some with wings spread wide, some with beaks open in a call, all dancing crazily against the hollowed-out tubes echoing a haunting melody.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said softly, drawing Sam's eyes from the ceiling.

"Yeah?"

"That tune sound…familiar to you?"

"N—" Sam stopped his protest, listening to the sound the wind teased from the wooden chimes. "Yeah… yeah, it does, kinda."

"Like something out of one of those old black and white movies."

"War movies," Sam nodded, "yeah."

"Weird." Dean shrugged, then rapped his knuckles on the wooden edge of the screen door.

When silence greeted them, Sam frowned and walked to the edge of the porch, looking at the detached garage. "No car," he reported.

"Huh," Dean walked to the other side of the porch, looking around the edge of the house, then back to Sam. "Just a garden hose."

"Want to come back?"

Dean lifted a brow. "Why would I want to do that?" he said, pulling the lock pick set from the pocket of his over coat.

Sam stood behind his brother, holding the screen door open as Dean crouched in front of the lock, checking over his shoulder for the one set of eyes that would trip them up. This used to be easier. Before Hendrickson. Before Dad. Just… before. The one thing Sam hated about this life—the solitude, the loneliness—was the one thing that had protected them.

Now, people knew about them. Exposure meant a whole different set of worries. Ones that Sam wasn't prepared to deal with. Ones that Sam would rather forget.

"Hurry up, man," Sam hissed.

The click of the lock was accompanied by Dean's glance of annoyance and they drew their guns as they stepped into the dark home, the din of the wind chimes at their backs.

"George?" Dean called, glancing to the side, then waving Sam toward the opened door leading to what appeared to be a parlor. "George Cooper? FBI. We're here to, uh… help."

No sound returned Dean's call. Sam stepped away from his brother, keeping him in his periphery, and moved through a room that hadn't been used in quite some time. He noticed a layer of dust on the tops of the tables and cobwebs lacing the pictures together. His boots were heavy on the seemingly fragile floor, creaks following in his wake as he continued through the room.

"Sam."

Dean's voice was tight, his need evident. Sam abandoned his search and turned on his heel, heading back to where he'd last seen his brother.

"What?"

"I found George," Dean was down the hall, his curved back and the heels of his boots sticking out of a doorway. Sam hurried to him, skidding to a halt when he saw his brother bent over the prone form of a silver-haired man. "He's breathing. Looks like someone clocked him a good one."

The room looked like ground zero. Glass and splinters of wood were strewn along the floor. Sam could see a few small carving knives embedded in the doorframe. Books had been pulled from shelves, lying open and torn. And as Sam bent to help Dean with George, he smelled it.

Gas.

"Dean."

"Just help me get him up—"

"Dean, we have to get out of here. Now."

"What—" Dean shot a look over his shoulder, his eyes irritated, until he saw Sam's face. His expression registered understanding and fear in one blink. "Oh, shit."

Dean turned, all action, rolling George over quickly. The older man groaned; blood from a wound on his forehead slipping into the cracks time had dug into his face. Sam stepped carefully over George's sprawled body and helped Dean set him upright.

"Wha…" George mumbled.

"We're gonna get you out of here," Dean declared.

"Wren…" George blinked, weakly lifting his head. "Get…"

Dean looked up at Sam over George's lolling head. "The girl must still be in here somewhere. Take him out."

"Dean!" Sam protested, but his words were lost as his brother stood and turned, heading further down the hall, leaving Sam with the limp, bleary-eyed widower. "C'mon, George," Sam grunted, trying to lift the older man to his feet. "Gotta get out of here."

_Wait… wait for Dean…_ Sam's heart screamed at him as George's weight filled his arms. He slid the man's hand over his shoulder and stared from the chaotic room. As they stepped into the hall, Sam hazarded a look to his left, hoping to see Dean.

"Wren…" George groaned.

"Dean's getting her," Sam assured the wounded man. "C'mon…"

He half-dragged, half-carried George down the now-chilly hall. As they reached the end, just before the opened front door, Sam saw a digital wall thermostat, looking utterly out of place in the centuries-old house.

His eyes caught and registered the temperature just as the digital read-out clicked. Seventy-one. Automatically, he looked at the gauge. It was set to seventy-two.

_Oh, shit…_

"Dean!"

Sam knew that the second the furnace kicked on, it would trigger the gas filling the interior of the house like a bomb, taking everyone and everything in its wake along for a very hot ride. George sagged in his arms. Sam shot another look over his shoulder, panic turning his stomach to ice and slamming his heart against his ribs. His legs felt watery as he stalled in the doorway between safety and savior.

"DEAN!"

When he received no answering call from his brother, Sam considered for one brief second dropping George where he stood and heading back inside.

"Son of a bitch," he growled, teeth clenched tight, as the instinct to protect pulled him outside with his cargo. Stumbling down the steps, the wind chimes teasing him with a barely remembered tune, Sam hastened to the edge of the yard and dropped George groggily on his backside. "Stay there."

"Who—who are you?" George peered up at him.

Sam didn't wait around to explain. He turned, heading back to the house at a run.

The explosion slammed through the air, slapping Sam with heat, tossing him off of his feet and depositing him on his back near George.

Sam blinked blindly at the evening sky, the silver grin of the moon canceled out by blurry pain. His eyes watered, his lungs bleated for release. He tried to pull in air, but it was as if his chest cavity had been turned paper thin. He felt a hand on his wrist, shaking his arm.

The gasp of air he was finally able to pull in was littered with ash and debris. He rolled weakly to his side, trying desperately to draw in a breath as a clumsy hand pounded his back.

"…the hell happened, kid?"

"What?"

"You okay?"

Sam blinked at the red-rimmed blue eyes staring down at him, firelight flickering oddly-shaped shadows across the face.

"What?" he asked again.

"My house just blew up," George said, voice dazed, as he sat back on his heels, his hand still resting on Sam's back. "Oh, God… Wren…"

"Dean," Sam gasped, pushing himself to his knees. The world rushed around him, blood like voices pounding his ears. He swayed dizzily.

"Easy, kid," George's hand rested heavier on Sam. "You're in no shape—"

"Get the hell off me," Sam growled, his voice a deep rasp, anger and fear turning it into one much older, one that had seen more than its share of tragedy. "My brother's in there."

Struggling out of his cumbersome overcoat, Sam staggered to his feet, unable to maintain his balance. He walked in an exaggerated diagonal line toward the ruined house. The explosion had blown out most of the fire, leaving behind a smoking rubble with sparks of flame peppering the foundation. The front door was gone, the parlor reduced to a pile of wood beams and broken furniture.

The back of the house seemed relatively intact, and Sam could see the gutted second floor framed in the orange light from the dying fires.

"DEAN!"

Groans of wood and crackles of flames met his ears. He stumbled forward into a surreal landscape of splinters and smoke, falling debris and littering paper.

_No… no no no no… _Sam staggered. _Not like this… not this way… you're supposed to watch out for me… you're supposed to stay…_

"DEAN! Answer me!"

Sam coughed as he lurched over a broken table, pushing shards of a papered wall out of the way. _Please please please…_

"Dean! C'mon, man… Answer me!"

Sam coughed again, tripping, catching himself, driving a splinter deep into his palm. The stab of pain was instant and fierce, causing a sour taste to gather at the back of his throat. He went to his knees with a cry of surprise, grabbing his right hand in his left and hissing with the pain of the intrusion of wood. He blinked burning eyes, feeling tears spill over the edge of his lashes.

It was then he saw the glimmer of silver. A silver ring shining in the wan firelight. A silver ring on the right hand of his brother. A hand that hung limply over a beam of wood.

Dean's hand.

"Oh, God…"

Sam surged forward, his eyes pinned to his brother's hand.

"I'm here… I'm here, Dean. I'm gonna get you out. You just wait, okay. You wait for me."

Sam's hands shook as he started to unbury his brother. His legs seemed to disappear from the knees down, supporting him by will alone. His stomach twisted and his heart pounded and his lungs refused to function normally. He panted with stubborn panic, his body moving, his mind screaming, blood beating so loudly in his ears that he wanted to cover them.

Fear gripped him more completely than when he'd watched the doctors shock his brother back to life. More completely than when he'd found his father sprawled on the floor.

"I'm here, Dean," he gasped with the effort it took to lift another board. He saw the rest of Dean then, face-down, overcoat twisted around him, one arm tucked under him, the other flung out as if he fell reaching.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Sam panted, not hearing his own voice, not realizing he was even speaking. He reached a trembling hand for Dean's neck, holding his breath. The steady thrum of his brother's pulse left him dizzy with relief.

"Okay, okay, I can do this," he told himself. "I can do this."

One ceiling beam, darkened with heat from the blast, lay across Dean's body, kept from crushing him by the edge of a parlor chair. Sam took a breath, folded his lips against his teeth, and with a guttural grunt of effort, pushed the beam aside, leaving Dean exposed.

Taking another deep breath, Sam stepped around the wreckage, kneeling close to his brother. Logic told him not to move Dean. Need canceled logic and he reached for his brother's shoulders. Carefully, his inhale captured in the caverns of his lungs, Sam rolled Dean over, cradling his brother's limp body in the crook of his arms.

Blood trailed from the corner of Dean's mouth, his nose, and a deep cut across his forehead and one cheek. Sam could feel it matting the hair at his left temple, and it darkened his neck where it ran freely from his ears.

"Oh, Jesus," Sam whispered, easing Dean's inert body against him, his thumb brushing carefully at the blood coming from Dean's ears. "Oh, God, Dean."

"Kid?"

Sam looked up, sniffing, tasting the salt of his own tears on the edges of his lips. George stood in the remnants of his front porch, a beautiful, young girl standing next to him.

"I used the neighbor's phone. Ambulance is on its way," George pulled the girl close to him. She lifted blank, china-blue eyes and Sam caught his breath. "I found Wren," George said simply.

_The girl must still be in here somewhere…_ Sam caught his breath in a stuttered sob as he looked at Wren's unlined, porcelain face staring innocently back at him. Dark hair framed her face like wings and her small mouth was parted in what looked like a gasp. _He went back after you,_ Sam wanted to say. But he could only stare at her.

Wrenching his gaze from Wren's eyes, Sam looked down at the blood covering Dean's face, using his splinter-impaled, trembling hand to wipe it from the hollows of his brother's eyes. He ended up simply blending their blood, smearing the sticky substance across Dean's cheek and darkening his brother's hair with his trembling strokes of attempted reassurance.

"Is he…" George hedged as the wail of the ambulance siren split the night.

"He's alive," Sam said, his voice thin, his breath stuttering. "He's alive."

_Wait for me, Dean…_

Sam felt the world roll around him. He felt the fine spray as the water from the firemen's hose blew at him on the wind. He felt the hands of the EMTs try to ease him away from his brother. He felt the arms pull Dean's limp body up. He felt the darkness close in, sucking the air from inside of him and ejecting it into the night.

He felt empty, hollow, and alone as he slipped quietly into oblivion, sagging into the arms of a stranger as his brother was taken from him.

_Wait for me…_

* * *

a/n: If I do this right, this should be a rather angsty story. If you come back, I hope you enjoy! Thanks for coming this far…

Oh, and I've received several emails/PMs lately asking if there is another story with the druid Brenna Kavanagh planned. The answer is yes, and actually, it will be the next story I write. That story is also outlined and will be set in Season 3 after _Dream a Little Dream of Me_.

Playlist:

_Crazy Circles_ by Bad Company

_Please_ by Staind (because I am in love with Aaron Lewis' voice…)

_Overfloater _by Soundgarden

_Achilles Last Stand, Babe I'm Gonna Leave You, When the Levee Breaks _(that's for you, SJ), _Kashmir _by the one and only Led Zeppelin

_Paint It Black_ by The Rolling Stones


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1

a/n: I'm late. I know. I do honestly feel shame. I started writing fanfic when my baby was four months old. She just turned two, and it's amazing how free time has shrunk as she's grown…

Thank you all so much for reading. I know wading through the long chapters isn't always appealing, but believe me when I say I appreciate it more than you know. Your feedback keeps me moving forward.

Oh, and a few of you have said that you hope I finish the story. I can _**promise**_ you that any story I start, I will finish. It basically consumes me until it's written. So, no worries there.

Kelly, thanks for being such an awesome safety net.

_music plays on…_

* * *

_Losing an illusion makes you wiser than finding a truth._

_Ludwig Börne_

www

There was no fire. No heat. No pain.

Nothing.

He'd been convinced something had hit him, had slammed him forward, rolling him through a punch of air so violently that his eyes had fallen from his face and his ears had slid down the sides of his head.

He was sure the taste in his mouth had been the coppery texture of blood.

But the air around him was crisp, clean.

He felt its breath catch on the rough stubble framing his jaw. Felt it caress his lips and burn his wide eyes. Around him leaves were just beginning to tumble from trees that had turned autumn's hues of red and gold. And the liquid sliding down his throat was the rich malt flavor of his favorite beer. Blinking down, he saw his own arms braced on the worn wood of a split-rail fence, a sweating brown bottle clutched in his hand.

He knew this place. He knew this moment.

He was standing in the heartbeat of time between celebrating survival of a debilitating demonic virus and the confession that destroyed his life. The confession that stemmed from a moment of weakness so vivid he could still feel the hollow sensation in his chest as he exhaled. Still feel the odd mix of liberation and capture as the words _tired of this job_ were caught in the net of his brother's memory.

_Sam, please, man. Hey, please. Just give me some time. Give me some time to think, okay? I'm begging you here. Please, please…_

He remembered saying those words, remembered how Sam had flinched, how he'd looked at him with a glimpse of fear lingering at the edges of his eyes. Dean pushed away from the fence and turned to his right, knowing Sam would be standing there.

Sam faced the river, his hips pressed against the split-rail fence, his fingers laced behind his head as the muscle in his jaw bounced. Dean knew he was processing, trying to assimilate the fact that not only had his father said he might have to be killed, but that his brother was the one who may have to execute him.

He swallowed, the bitter aftertaste of truth chasing the flavor of the beer.

_Sam, listen._

Dean frowned when his brother didn't turn. He knew he'd spoken, had felt his lips part, his tongue hit the backs of his teeth as his mouth formed the shape of his brother's name.

But he'd heard nothing.

_Hey, Sam._

The silence pressed in around him, weighing him down with absurdity. He tried to take a step forward, to reach out to Sam, but found the sky suddenly too heavy, the world holding tightly to the heels of his boots.

_Sam?_ _Hey, man, look at me, okay? I think… Sam, something's… something's wrong…_

The wet bottle of beer slid from Dean's frozen fingers and hit the earth, amber liquid splashing up from the mouth and splattering the base of his jeans. He licked his lips, feeling the softness of the skin under the texture of his tongue. He felt his heart pick up speed, pounding at the base of his throat, sending flashes of light behind his eyes.

_Sam?_

Dropping his arms to his sides in a slow sweep of motion, Sam turned, his chin lowered, his eyes up. Dean felt a chill ripple across his skin as he met his brother's gaze. There was no heat, no heart in Sam's eyes. They were empty, hollow, echoing the vacuum of space that pressed painfully down around Dean's ears.

_What—_ Dean tried, but the pressure was suddenly too intense, too sharp for him to even complete the plea for comprehension. He gasped, pulling in air in an attempt to alleviate the heavy feeling in his ears.

Sam's eyes turned yellow.

And Dean stopped breathing.

The yellow was hard, cold, and frighteningly familiar.

_Mask all that nasty pain… Mask the truth…_

Dean shook his head, trying to banish the memory of his father's voice wrapping around a devil's words. The world spun dizzily; he wanted to take a step back. He wanted to push Sam away. He couldn't move. The air pressed tighter, climbing into his ears, squeezing his head so that he groaned from the pain of it.

Sam stepped toward him, his yellow eyes growing, stretching, covering half of his face. Dean opened his mouth, searching for a way to release the pressure building behind his eyes.

_What the hell?_ He demanded angrily, his words falling from his lips into a vacuum of silence.

Sam moved closer. His normally innocent smile spreading into an insane grin until the edges of his lips met the creases of his ears.

_I'm dreaming… this is a dream… this isn't real…_Dean dared to shake his head once more.

It was wrong, all of it. Just wrong. Sam's eyes flashed at him, blinding him and searing heat through his pupils. He tried to cry out, tried to back away. He was denied reprieve.

And the pressure built.

_Get the fuck away from me_, he demanded in a silent, empty voice. _Just… just get away!_

Sam closed the gap between them, his chest against Dean's, his legs against Dean's, his hands like ice on either side of Dean's face. The hard, yellow eyes spread until they were all Dean could see. The cold touch of Sam's hands changed, spread, grew until Dean felt talons digging into his temples, an oily slick of feathers brushing across his eyes.

_No…_

Dean tried to resist, wanted to move away, wanted to demand his brother return.

But the silence weighed too much.

_SAM! _

www

Fear had a taste.

It lingered in the back of Sam's throat like cheap beer, coating his tongue and making speech difficult. It clung to the soft insides of his lips so that each time he answered a question—_yes, that hurts…no, I can't feel that…I don't know the last time I had a Tetanus shot…no, I'm not allergic to anything_—he tasted the sticky, metallic flavor of fear.

He felt as if he'd been sucking on a nickel.

The noise of the ER buzzed around him; machines beeping, voices calling out orders and instructions, calming, encouraging, cursing. From the moment he'd opened his eyes on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, strangers staring down at him with a caring, unfamiliar gaze, he'd been listening for Dean. Searching for him with a secret sense that he had unconsciously employed since a time before memory.

He was still reaching into nothing, the void around him that should be filled by Dean, as he sat on the ER bed, pastel-striped curtains pushed aside to reveal to him the organized chaos that was the emergency unit, back bowed with worry, uncertainty, and…fear.

He pulled his lips against his teeth at the memory of times without Dean. Times he was left behind to wait and wonder. Times he struck out on his own in rebellion. Times they were wrenched apart. Times Dean walked away.

Dean was _here_, though. Sam had seen his brother's profile as he'd twisted on the gurney to look over his shoulder, caught the sight of the silver-ring adorned right hand resting on Dean's chest as his bed was wheeled into the ER, shoved into the closest alcove to the door, a clear blue oxygen bag fitting securely over his mouth and nose and being pumped by a strong-armed blonde nurse.

"This is a pretty deep wound," the physician's assistant commented as he pulled the last shards of wood from Sam's palm. "You're going to need stitches."

"Okay," Sam replied, distracted, eyes skimming the far end of the open ER for signs of movement from Dean's curtain. Somewhere to his left a baby cried and a woman hushed it with unintelligible, soothing words of assurance.

The bed beneath him was raised high enough that the PA could treat him while standing and Sam's long legs barely brushed the floor with the tips of his scuffed, worn boots. He pressed his toes into the linoleum floor, tightening the muscles in his back as the scent of antiseptic and sterile packaging wafted through the small alcove.

"You saved his life, you know," the black man continued, resting Sam's numb hand on a tray and covering it with a blue suture sheet.

"Huh?"

Sam slid his eyes to the man's face, absorbing his features for the first time. He remembered being told the man's name while a team of people in multi-colored scrubs took his vitals. It had bounced off his ears and evaporated into nothing as the world continued to turn and noise intensified and lights blinked on and off and air brushed his skin and Sam sat in the middle of it.

Alone.

"George Cooper," the PA clarified. "Could have been so much worse if you two hadn't come by. We all like George around here."

"Oh, yeah," Sam swallowed, movement across the room catching his eye.

"This might feel a bit cold," the man warned as he lifted a clear plastic bottle with a bent straw at the mouth, pausing for a second to allow Sam to prepare, then squirted the saline mixture into the open wound at the base of Sam's palm.

"Ah, _God_," Sam hissed, flinching as the PA held his hand still, letting the solution clean out the residual wood particles. The icy water filled the hollow of his hand and drove misery to his bones, etching its way up his arm and settling into his shoulder.

"Sorry," the man said sincerely. "You two are heroes, you know?"

Sam tightened his jaw, his teeth grinding, letting his breath out slowly through his nose. "Thanks," he managed, knowing instinctively that he should have denied the accolade.

Dean would have. He'd gone back into that house, parting the almost-visible gas fumes with his stubborn body in search of an innocent, unthinking, unwavering. Sam cursed him silently, wanting to yell at his brother for his stupidity. Wanting to push him and shake him and demand that he not be so stupid. Wanting to know who he thought he was. Wanting to know if he ever paused to friggin' _think_.

Wanting to just see him, dammit.

"Bet you're used to that in your line of work, though," the man continued, having cleaned Sam's wound and moved on to stitching up the torn, puckered skin.

His comment startled Sam, drawing his attention from the powder-blue curtain revealing nothing but feet hustling around a hospital bed.

"What?" Sam asked, baffled as to how this man knew about the lives they'd saved.

The nurse looked up. "Well, you know… as FBI agents."

Sam closed his eyes. "Right."

The EMTs had arrived to find them broken and bleeding in the rubble of the house, their only identification that of FBI Agents Bachman and Turner.

Minutes ticked by. Sam felt his body tightening, the need to curl in on himself, to protect, to hide, warring with the need to move, to search, to see Dean. If their situations were reversed, Dean would have forced himself into that curtained area, hand bleeding, telling them they could damn well sew him up after they took care of Sam.

_So, why am I just sitting here?_ _Move, dammit. Do something. Move!_

"You're all set," the PA proclaimed.

Sam jumped at the sudden sound of the man's voice, having felt nothing of the stitches. He opened his heavy eyes and watched the man shift back slightly and remove the suture drape from Sam's arm. He gently set a thick gauze pad over the wound, then secured it with long strips of medical tape.

"This could seep a little, which is normal. But if you see any red lines, or swelling—"

"I got it," Sam nodded, cradling his wounded hand against his chest.

"We'll give you a script for some pain meds," the PA said, clearing away the wound-cleaning paraphernalia.

"Thanks," Sam nodded, watching as someone swished their way free of the curtained area around Dean. "Hey, uh, can I go see my bro—partner, now?"

The PA looked over to the curtain Sam had been watching intently since they wheeled him into the ER, Dean silent and still on the gurney behind him.

Sam shivered, the memory of the noise and light as the paramedics pulled him from the broken, twisted Impala, unable to reach his brother, his father, unable to see them, hear them, touch them.

"I'll check."

The moment the black man stepped free of the curtain, Sam was on his feet, balancing himself against the wall with his good hand. His black tie had been removed, his white button-up shirt untucked and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, exposing a smoke-stained T-shirt. He'd lost his overcoat at the house and his suit jacket had met the same demise as his tie.

Knowing he looked like a frat boy after a drunken toga party, Sam moved free of the alcove and into the noise of the ER. He ignored the motion around him, focused on the last place he'd seen his brother, determined to get to him before his hollow legs gave in and he ended up on his back.

Sam paused just outside the curtain shielding his brother as the last two nurses stepped clear, pulling the blue material shut behind them. He slid into the room on the opposite end of the curtain, drawing a breath as he saw Dean for the first time since cradling his bloody, limp body in his arms amidst the destruction of George Cooper's house.

"Oh," he exhaled, unable to utter more. He took a step forward, his eyes sliding down Dean's still form, pulling in the sight of him.

A pulse oximeter was attached to Dean's index finger, a line of saline inserted through an IV into his arm. Slim wires attached to electrodes were fastened to his chest under a hospital gown, which was unsnapped at the shoulder revealing his collar bone and sternum.

Sam stepped closer to the bed, his numb hand brushing against the sheets, dragging forward with his motion, and resting on Dean's arm. His brother's face was a mess of swollen bruises and thin slices in the skin. Blood had been cleaned away from his features, but was still apparent in his hair where it matted the short, brown spikes into deep red clumps.

"Man, Dean…" Sam managed around the lump in his throat.

Days of annoyance, irritation at habits, frustration with the repetition of their lives faded away as his gut flinched at the sight of his brother's wounds. At his brother's stillness.

"Can I help you?"

Sam jerked, spinning around and thrust a hand out toward the bed to balance himself.

"Easy," a dark-haired woman in blue scrubs stepped forward quickly, placing a cool, soft hand on his elbow. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just…" Sam swallowed, licking his lips. The taste was back. He suddenly wanted a drink. Badly. "Tough seeing him like this."

The woman's brown eyes softened as she shifted her gaze between Sam and Dean. "You're his…" She regarded a chart that had been left on the tray at the foot of Dean's bed. "Partner?"

Sam looked down. _Truth or cover? _

"What's your name?" She asked, her voice softer and more inviting as she ducked her chin to catch his eyes. He saw minute folds around her eyes, a journal of her life leaving evidence of care on her face.

"Sam."

"Sam, I'm Doctor Wilde. I'll be taking care of your—"

"Brother," Sam whispered. "He's my brother."

Dr. Wilde settled back into her heels, crossing her hands in front of her at the wrists. "I see."

Sam swallowed, feeling an over-abundance of wetness at the back of his throat, amplifying the metallic taste. He leaned a hip against Dean's bed, resting his arm against his brother's, feeling the warmth there, the soft hairs on Dean's arm brushing the back of his hand.

"You're not actually FBI, are you," Dr. Wilde asked.

"We read about George in the paper," Sam explained, staying as close to the truth as he dared. "Went to…" he shrugged, "check it out."

She lifted an eyebrow, the soft, loose skin around her eyes stretching up with the motion. "And you figured impersonating FBI agents would get you in the door?"

Sam shrugged, silent.

Dr. Wilde sighed, regarding Dean's chart once more. "Hate to break it to you, kid, but you didn't have to try that hard. George'll talk to anyone about Camilla, God love him."

Dean shifted slightly on the bed, pulling Sam's attention to him immediately. A frown tugged at Dean's lips, drawing a line between his brows and puckering the butterfly bandages holding the skin by his eye together.

"Doc," Sam said, his voice rough with tension and worry. "What about my brother?"

Dr. Wilde's sigh was weighted and Sam felt a chill shimmy across his shoulders, settling into his lower back. He suddenly wanted to stop listening. He wanted the sound in the ER behind them to drown out the doctor's next words. He refused to hear _if _or _maybe _or _not long_…

There simply wasn't a possibility that Dean wasn't going to be okay.

"He was extremely lucky. Aside from the bruising and superficial lacerations, he has a severe concussion," the doctor began. "We will have to do a CT scan to know the full extent, but from what I can tell, he's going to have a pretty massive headache when he wakes up."

_When…she said when…not _if_…when…_

Sam nodded, wrapping his fingers tightly around Dean's wrist to anchor himself and warm his chilled body.

"He could suffer some minor complications—we won't know until he wakes up."

"What kind of…complications?" Sam looked over at her.

She lifted a shoulder. "Short-term memory loss, perseverating—"

"Per-what?" Sam frowned, shaking his head once with confusion.

"Repeating the same question over and over as if he didn't hear the answer."

Sam nodded. "He does that anyway," he said softly, a ghost of a smile teasing his lips.

Dr. Wilde smiled softly. "Brothers are interesting creatures."

"He's had concussions before," Sam said, rolling his neck, wanting to sit down, wanting to close his eyes. "We know the drill."

"Honestly, it's not the concussion I'm most concerned about," Dr. Wilde informed him.

Sam looked over quickly, watching as the light seemed to shimmer around her as his eyes blurred. "What do you mean?"

"The explosion ruptured his eardrums," Dr. Wilde said. "A ruptured eardrum will eventually heal on its own, but in the meantime, there can be loss of hearing from complete to simply a hollow, tinny effect."

"Loss of… of hearing?" Sam repeated, leaning heavily against Dean's bed. "For how long?"

Shrugging, the doctor replied, "It's really hard to say. The most important thing is to keep the ears free from infection so the drum has a chance to heal. Take it very easy until hearing returns."

"And… does it ever," Sam blinked slowly. "Ever _not_ return?"

"There have been some limited cases where something as traumatic as what your brother survived permanently deafened the individual," Dr. Wilde nodded, "but I wouldn't worry about that until I had to, Sam."

_You wouldn't worry, _Sam thought, looking down at his brother's bruised face, _because you don't know my brother._

Hunting was Dean's life. It moved him through the dark, anchored him, gave him a reason.

_I think he wants us to pick up where he left off…saving people, hunting things._

The eagerness in Dean's voice had been palpable. This life… this life was all his brother had. And if that was affected…if that went away…

_I'm tired, Sam… tired of this job…this life… this weight on my shoulders, man, I'm tired of it._

With Dean's confession whispering to him, confusing him, Sam stared unblinking on Dean's closed eyes, the feel of his brother's body heavy in his arms shifting like a memory across his muscles. He ignored the sharp eyes of Dr. Wilde as they scraped across his profile, searching the recesses of his mind for a way to balance Dean if he woke up into a world of silence.

A shriek echoed from the waiting room, let loose into the ER as a man in a white lab coat stepped through the wide entry doors.

Sam's gut pulled at the sound. It was grief wrapped in denial surrounded by disbelief. It was seeing his father lying silent and still on a hospital room floor. It was Jessica pinned to the ceiling, bleeding, burning. It was paddles slapped against his brother's bare chest, his body bucking under the current.

He turned, legs trembling, and watched as Dr. Wilde rotated, swiping the curtain away and heading in the direction of the sound.

"Easy, honey," a man's low voice crooned down the hallway. Sam stepped to the end of Dean's bed, curiosity pulling him toward the commotion. "Easy. I'm here."

"George?" It was Wren, Sam realized. Wren who'd cried out, who'd been left alone in the dark, nothing but the noise of the ER to settle her.

"That's right, honey. I'm here." George's voice was cotton-soft and flowed through the air like syrup, a balm that comforted the terrified girl and at the same time, pushed Sam back into the brightly-lit alcove that shielded his brother from the chaos.

Leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes briefly, Sam absorbed the sounds around him, picturing Wren alone and waiting. Beeps and whistles like Morse code bounced from various machines. Low murmurs followed harsh cries of pain. The baby was crying again, a crash of fear that hollowed Sam's heart and tightened his belly.

And then, like the fabric of sound itself was being stretched over a pillow of needles, Sam heard his name.

"Sam?"

His name in Dean's pain-saturated voice.

"Sam… something's… something's wrong…"

Sam pulled his head away from the wall, blinking rapidly as his weary eyes watered in the recycled air of the ER. He turned to face Dean, registering the blood-shot green eyes, the folds dancing across his forehead that telegraphed pain, the tightness of his lips, the jump of muscle in his jaw.

Swallowing hard, Sam stepped forward. "Dean?"

Dean reached up with a trembling hand and rubbed clumsily at the scruff on his cheeks. As Sam watched, he slid his hand up to press the palm into the bridge of his nose.

"Dean? Hey…"

"Jesus Christ," Dean groaned, his eyes closing beneath his hand. "What the hell…"

Sam bumped the edge of the bed slightly with his hip. "Dean? You hear me, man?"

Dean didn't move. His hand stayed pressed tightly to his forehead as if removal of that support would allow his head to roll free of his shoulders and come to rest in the corner of the room. Sam took a breath, then reached up to gently wrap his long fingers around Dean's wrist.

Dean flinched, blinking rapidly up at Sam's eyes. "Shit, man, I didn't—"

—_hear you…_ Sam watched the words form and die in Dean's eyes. Watched the confusion wash in and over his brother like a wave. And he held on for the ride.

www

The pattern of light behind his closed eyes formed the shape of a crescent moon.

He was offered one beat of time to register that image before pain obliterated everything else, pulling the sides of his head together to meet in the center of his brain, then blowing his skull outward until he was sure his skin wouldn't be elastic enough to hold everything inside.

"Sam?"

He tried to think, tried to stay very still until he knew where his brother was, until he knew what kind of trouble they were in. But the heat of the pain, the white-fire intensity shook his resolve.

"Sam… something's… something's wrong…"

Bile built at the back of his throat, fought off valiantly by an iron will and complete distaste for the vulnerability that came with getting sick. He blinked blurry eyes, the glaring overhead light shooting spikes through his pupils to the back of his head to mingle with the chaos already making itself home between his ears.

Reaching up, Dean tried to press the pain back, holding his head still with the palm of his hand, pulling air in through his nose, letting it leak out through parted lips, feeling it dry the dampness on the soft skin there.

_Where the hell was Sam? _He'd seen Sam. He was sure of it. He'd been standing at the foot of… where was he? In bed?

"Jesus Christ," Dean groaned, closing his eyes against the light. "What the hell…"

Searching the bleary flashes of memory that sliced the backs of his eyes like straight razors, Dean saw his hands on the steering wheel of the Impala… saw Sam's questioning eyes as he sat in the passenger seat, looking comfortable and at home dressed in a black suit and overcoat… saw his hands move to the keys and…

Had they been in an accident?

Fingers closed over his wrist, pulling his hand gently from his head and slamming his heart against the base of his throat in a startled reaction.

Dean flinched, blinking rapidly up at Sam's eyes. "Shit, man, I didn't—"

—_hear you_.

Sam was watching him, hazel eyes heavy with exhaustion, worry, fear, and unshed tears. Dean blinked again, carefully sliding his eyes from Sam's face and around his immediate environment. White walls. Narrow bed. Rough sheets shot through with bleach, antiseptic and alcohol smells lingering at the back of his nose. Hospital. ER.

In that moment, it occurred to him that not only had he not heard Sam approach, he hadn't heard _anything_.

No other voices, no machines, not even the sound of his own voice.

"What the hell…"

Sam tugged at his wrist, forcing Dean to look over. His brother was speaking, full lips moving rapidly with explanation, sound no doubt tumbling free and mixing with the background noise of the hospital Dean was all-too aware he should be hearing.

"What?" Dean asked helplessly, not registering anything Sam was telling him, feeling panic mix with pain as he pulled his hand free, pressing it deep into the hard mattress beneath him.

Sam stepped back, his lips pressing flat, his unbandaged hand parting his hair in four furrows. Dean's eyes fell to Sam's other hand, noting the thick white bandaged taped across his palm. His face pulled together in a frown of lost memory.

When had Sam hurt his hand? Why were they in the hospital? Where were his clothes? Why couldn't he hear anything? And, please _God_, someone tell him why his head hurt so fucking much.

It was only when he found himself reaching up with a trembling hand to run fingers across his dry lips that he realized he'd asked those questions aloud, his head spinning from confusion, pain, and disorientation at the world of silence around him. Closing his eyes against the tight spin of the room, Dean tried to breathe through the panic at not even hearing his own heartbeat.

Sam's warm fingers closed over his bare shoulder, and Dean opened his eyes. A small, white notepad rested in his lap, Sam's block-like handwriting scrawled across it.

"FBI alias. Ghost of dead wife. House exploded. Concussion. Ruptured eardrums."

"Ruptured eardrums?" Dean repeated, pulling back as Sam flinched away at the sound. Swallowing, Dean attempted to lower his voice, curling in as a wave of pain compressed his spine. "Sam?"

Sam squeezed his shoulder, lips moving in meaningless motion as he no doubt attempted to reassure his brother.

Pulling his legs up, Dean braced his elbow on his tented knee, pressing his palm once more against the bridge of his nose. His body began to beat in a soft symphony of pain, bruises and stretched muscle happy to make themselves known as he sat powerless to silence them.

"Sonuvabitch," he muttered. "What happened, Sam?"

Sam grabbed the notepad and Dean waited until a new message was thrust under his nose.

"Yeah, you said the house exploded. What house?"

Dean waited, pressing his free hand against his side and breathing shallowly as the ribs across his back whimpered.

"Ghost?" he read.

The memory of a record store, a newspaper, and Sam's earnest eyes flashed like strobe lights across his vision. He swallowed.

"I don't… _hell_ I can't hear a thing…"

Sam watched him for a minute, then wrote something else, handing the pad of paper back to Dean.

"Not permanent? How the hell do you know that?"

In that moment, the curtains at the end of the brightly lit, silent alcove parted and a slim, dark-haired woman stepped through. Dean bit the inside of his cheek as he lifted his head, fighting back the sudden groan of pain that fought its way to the top of his throat. The woman looked at Dean, her lips parting in what he perceived as a greeting. When he simply continued to watch her, his fingers pressed tightly to his forehead and temple, she turned to Sam.

Watching his brother talk to this woman, unable to comprehend their words, unable to hear their meaning, was like sinking slowly to the bottom of a very deep, very murky lake. His eyes darted helplessly between the profiles, his lungs burning as he unconsciously held his breath, straining to hear something beyond the hiss of static that was beginning to overwhelm him.

"Hey!"

They jumped in surprised, turning to him in unison.

"Somebody better start talking to me right the hell now," Dean demanded, eyes hot and chest tight. He pushed himself higher in the bed, the loose hospital gown falling from his other shoulder, exposing his chest and the electrodes attached there.

He zeroed in on Sam's face, watching as his brother licked his lips, feeling Sam prepare to deliver bad news.

"Is my car okay?" Dean asked, feeling his stomach turn to ice. "Sam…"

Sam nodded quickly and vigorously, tapping the air with his fingertips in an effort to calm him.

A slice on his forehead throbbed once, harshly, and Dean reached up, pressing the flat of his hand against his eyebrow.

"Last thing I remember…" he started, balance spinning with vertigo as he _felt _his lips form words, _felt _the air move up through his throat, over his tongue, _felt_ the meaning in his mind. "…we were in the motel room… no, no, wait, we were in the Impala and…"

He stared hard at Sam.

"Are you okay?"

Sam nodded, tucking his bandaged hand into the small of his own back, trying to hide it from Dean. He flipped the notepad back over to the first message, pointing at it and jutting his chin out, eyes pleading Dean to understand.

"House exploded…" Dean said. "Were there… birds?"

Sam's head bounced back, his eyebrows darting together as he said _No…_ Dean recognized the word as he watched Sam's mouth. Then Sam blinked and grabbed the pad back.

"Wind chimes?" Dean read.

Sam nodded.

"Huh," Dean dropped his head back against the pillow. "Coulda sworn I saw… birds."

Sam tapped his bared shoulder and Dean lifted his head. Pointing to the dark-haired woman, Sam wrote _Doctor Wilde _on the pad. Dean watched her carefully, unsure how far to extend his trust by sight alone.

There were so many things he could hear in a person's voice. He heard under the words behind the projected meaning. He heard what they _wanted_ to say, what they _wanted_ him to hear. He heard fear, suspicion, trust, need.

With a sick feeling sitting heavy in his gut, he realized he could _see_ none of that.

Dr. Wilde smiled softly at him and extended a hand, speaking to him as he grasped the thin, soft appendage in a firm grip. She continued to speak to him, her eyes darting between him and Sam, providing the information Dean thirsted for, but was denied. Sam nodded sagely; Dean saw his brother absorbing her words with the smallest shift of his stance—his hands relaxing on his hips, his chin dipping, his blink slow.

When the doctor finished her monologue, she smiled again at Dean, patted his leg, wrote something on a piece of paper, then handed it to Sam. With a last, almost sympathetic look at Sam, she stepped back through the curtain and out of Dean's sight. Dean turned his attention back to Sam, waiting.

"So?"

Sam looked down at him, eyes darting in thought.

"Spill it, Sam."

Sam began speaking, too rapidly, too anxiously.

"Dude, stop! Just… stop!"

The pressure pushing out the edges of his skull had faded for a moment, but alone once more with his brother, the shock of silence succumbed to the pain and he covered his right eye with the palm of his hand, searching for some kind of solace.

He tossed the pad at Sam. "Tell me what's going on," Dean ordered, feeling the words butt up against his lips with hard edges of frustration.

A few seconds ticked by and Sam dropped the pad back into Dean's lap.

_Wants to do tests. Stay overnight. _

"We need to get out of here," Dean whispered. Or at least he hoped he whispered. He pushed the air through his mouth with less force. "We can't stay, Sam…"

He recognized his brother's reassuring grip on his chilled skin and kept his eyes closed. Need for oblivion warred with desire for action and he felt the odd sensation of floating once more. The notepad dropped in his lap and he read _car still at Cooper's._

Instantly worried, Dean looked up. "Is my car okay?"

Sam's eye roll told him that he had nothing to worry about, but he didn't take a breath until Sam nodded.

Sam said something, eyes intense and lips moving rapidly. Dean clenched his teeth. Pain doubled the level of frustration and he pushed Sam's hand way from his shoulder. Shrugging the lopsided hospital gown back up onto his shoulder, Dean shoved the covers away and slid one leg at a time over the edge of the bed.

Sam stepped in front of him, immediately gripping his shoulders. Dean sensed Sam's voice, guessed at the words, though the white noise of speaker feedback was the only non-sound he detected.

"Get the hell out of my way," Dean growled, pushing weakly at Sam's arm, strength leaking from him as if someone had punctured his side. "I'm not staying."

He stood, legs trembling beneath him, the skin on his chest resisting the movement as the monitor probes pulled. The IV tubing was long, and offered no resistance as Dean pushed again at Sam, effectively backing his brother up a step.

A silent war commenced. Sam's fingers twisted in Dean's loose hospital gown, pulling it free from his shoulder, his face knotting up in an expression of hurt and anger. Dean watched his brother speak and suffocated in the vacuum pressing around him, frustration building parallel with pain. His back screamed, his legs ached, his head… _God_ his head was two seconds from splitting open and spilling his secrets.

"Get away from me, Sam," he tried, knowing even without being able to hear himself that his voice trembled. He felt it shimmy across his tongue, vibrate in his throat.

Sam gripped him harder, pulling him forward, nearly shaking him. Twisting his arms across his brother's, Dean looked up, seeing with guilt and surprise the tears balanced on the edges of his brother's lashes, tumbling wet trails down Sam's cheeks as he blinked. Pulling air in through his nose to steady himself, Dean saw Sam's lips tighten, words spitting from him in a torrent of verbal pain.

…_think you were doing…_

Dean blinked. Sam shook him, but he kept his eyes pinned to his brother's mouth. Meaning began to sneak into the silence. If he could just hold on… Dean tightened his fingers on Sam's arm.

…_about me…_

"Sam, I—"

The world turned gray.

Images flashed before his eyes like torn pieces of a photograph, blurred and hurried, silent and dizzying. Walking toward a house, drawing his gun, seeing a man face-down on the floor… yellow eyes… oily wings… Dad… burning… Sam… burning…

Thrusting his hands forward instinctively, Dean felt himself cry out in protest, searching for balance, for strength. His legs surrendered to the abuse, disappearing beneath him. Arms wrapped around him. The smell of the hospital faded away and was instantly replaced by the ashy smell of old fire, the musky smell of sweat.

His face pressed against something solid, something soft. His brother's scent slammed him back through years of memory.

The gray turned to black.

* * *

_Minnesota, 1994_

_It's that weird hour of the morning when the world holds its breath waiting for the sun to roll over the edge of the earth when we pull onto Pastor Jim's gravel drive. I hear the small stones crunch under the heavy wheels of Dad's black Impala. He has instinctively turned down the music, Zeppelin having faded to the Stones several miles back._

_Sam's head is heavy on my leg. He's sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks, the movement of the car lulling him like nothing else I've tried. I hear Dad pull in a heavy breath and wait. I know his sounds. I know he wants to say something, to order me, instruct me…reassure me in the only way he knows how._

_Jim Murphy appears in the frame of the screen door and I see Dad's shoulders stiffen in the seat in front of me. I don't know what has happened between these two; eventually, Dad manages to drive wedges between himself and all of his friends. The only thing that saves him, I think, is that he picks good people. They won't let him go._

_Pastor Jim swings the screen door open, taking a step onto the cement landing, his longish, graying hair stirring in the morning breeze. I watch silently, waiting. Jim is wearing faded, torn jeans, an unbuttoned red and black flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, steel-toed work boots, and yet he still looks like a preacher._

_I _see_ God around him. And I look away._

_"Wake him up," Dad orders._

_"He's fine," I reply rebelliously. I want Sam to sleep. I want more quiet. I want a little bit longer to be just me. Just Dean Winchester, riding in the car, listening to music._

_Not the protector, not the big brother, not the responsible one._

_"Dean," Dad warns. _

_Sighing, I grip Sam's shoulder, shaking him gently. He mumbles incoherently and rubs his face against my thigh. I wrinkle my nose in a bit of disgust and shake him harder. Dad shuts off the car, stepping out into the gray light of morning. The familiar creak of the door pulls Sam the rest of the way to consciousness._

_He rolls over, eyes bleary, confused, pupils large with the cobwebs of sleep. I watch his face, waiting. I've watched him so many times. Mostly when he's not aware of it. I've watched him study, train, talk to strangers at school. I've watched him fight with Dad. I've watched him sleep._

_Part of me never wants to stop watching him, and part of me never wants to see him again. Because the more I see Sam… the less I see me._

_"What's goin' on?" he mumbles, rubbing at his gritty eyes with a grimy hand. _

_It's been awhile since we've showered. I notice the musky scent of our bodies in the contrast of the fresh morning air from the opened door._

_"We're at Jim's," I say._

_"Pastor Jim's?" Sam yawns, apparently comfortable to continue to lie against my leg._

_"You know another Jim?" I shove gently at his shoulders, but with enough force to tell him to get the hell up._

_"Jeeze, grouch," he says, sitting up and slouching against the seat. "Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?"_

_At that, my stomach growls, and I'm acutely reminded that in the last twelve hours, the only one of us who has eaten or slept is Sam._

_"Shut up and go get our stuff out of the trunk."_

_"Hey, you can't tell me what to do."_

_"I just did," I snap, swinging the door open and stepping out._

_Jim and Dad are still talking, verbally circling each other like two alpha male wolves—Dad with his hands on his hips, his chin dropped, but his eyes up, looking like he could tear Jim's arm off and beat him with it without hesitation. Jim stands at ease, arms crossed behind his back, legs spread, his military background having not gone rogue like my father's._

_But even with the peaceful stance, there is danger around Jim. It's in the lines that frame his eyes. In the set of his mouth. It's in the smell of him. He is too calm. He's always watching. He sees too much._

_"Dean," Dad calls and I step forward, having known my summons was coming. "You and Sam are going to stay here for a bit."_

_"Yes sir," I reply, as if I weren't the one to suggest this in the first place._

_"You watch out for your brother," Dad says, finally turning to face me. _

_I nod._

_"Dad?"_

_Years fall away from Sam's voice as he asks for explanation and reassurance in that one word._

_"I gotta head out, Sammy," Dad says, sounding careful. I hear the false smile in his voice, and look up at Jim. He is watching me._

_"For how long?" _

_"Not sure yet." _

_I keep my eyes on Jim, my back to my family, swallowing, breathing._

_"I wanna go with you," Sam declares._

_"Not this time, kiddo."_

_"Why?"_

_Dad sighs and I feel my eyes burning. _

_"You listen to your brother, okay?"_

_"But, Dad—"_

_"Sam, I have to go."_

_"Dad!"_

_The door shuts and the meaty sound of the Chevy engine fills the pearly morning. I turn at that and meet my father's eyes through the glass. He nods once and I see the corners of his mouth tick up in a rare, genuine smile. I nod back and lift my hand. He twists around to look over the back seat, slowly reversing down the gravel drive._

_I know he'll see it then. The arrow. The evidence of the reality of our life. I left it on the seat for him. A reminder that I saw more than he realized. I saw what was under that water. I know what Sam's nightmares hold. _

_"Dean?" Jim's voice is so different from Dad's. Gentle, heavy. But full of judgment._

_"Gimme a minute," I reply, stepping toward Sam._

_"Fuck him," Sam growls when I rest my hand on his shoulder._

_"Yeah?" I reply._

_"He wants to just leave us whenever he feels like it? Well, fuck him," Sam repeats, and I hear his lips tremble. It's tough to fall asleep in safety and wake up without balance._

_"Sammy," I say gently, and to my surprise, he turns toward me, burying his face in my chest. He's still small enough to hide against me. He's still small enough that I can stand between him and everything else. _

_"I hate him," Sam mumbles through hot tears into my chest._

_"No, you don't," I say, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and holding the other out as a warning to Jim to just stay back. _

_"Yes, I do," Sam says. "I hate everybody."_

_I lift an eyebrow at that, unable to mask my amusement at his decree while he's buried against me. "Even me?"_

_Sam sniffs and backs away. "Well… maybe not you."_

_I look at his eyes. An old man inside of a little boy. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, staring at me. Waiting for something._

_"I know, Sam," I whisper._

_"Huh?"_

_"I _know_."_

_Sam stares at me longer, realization rising in his eyes, echoing the growing light of day. "You saw it?"_

_I nod._

_"Why didn't you say anything?"_

_"I just did."_

_"To Dad!"_

_"He didn't need to know," I say. It's my only explanation for the secret. _

_Sam was mine; I was the one who'd seen the true form of the ala beneath the waves. I was the one who'd kept Sam from its wing-tipped clutches. I was the one who'd held on, waiting for Dad to kill it, waiting for Dad to pull us out. _

_"He didn't need to know, Sam."_

_Sam sniffs again, staring at me with those searching eyes. "Yeah, okay," he says softly. "Okay, Dean."_

_"You boys hungry?" Jim asks quietly from behind us. My stomach growls loudly in response. _

_"Come on up to the house, then," Jim says, and I hear the screen door bang behind him. _

_I grab my duffel and turn, knowing Sam will follow. Stepping into Pastor Jim's house feels like slipping under water. I want to hold my breath and have to force myself to exhale. But I know that it's here Sam can beat his nightmare. It's here that he can make it end. _

_Because it's here that mine began._

www

Waiting rooms are the loneliest places on earth.

It didn't matter how many people were in the room with him, Sam realized. The one person he wanted with him was the reason he was sitting there in the first place.

_What the hell did you think you were doing?_ His own words taunted him. _I mean, shit, Dean, did you even think about me? You ran back into that house… do you _want_ to die? Is that it?_

Sam slouched on the circa 1970's style brown and orange chair, trying to find a comfortable position for his aching body, flexing his wounded hand, and tuning out the drone of the local nightly news on the TV attached to the wall in the corner. He could still feel the sudden weight of his brother in his arms as Dean went slack, his lashes hitting his cheeks in a sigh as he gave way to oblivion.

Closing his eyes, Sam longed for the same, but worry fueled adrenalin, pounding his heart with a cadence unique to those doomed to wait. Doctor Wilde had said the tests wouldn't take long, and that he shouldn't be concerned, but being alone and out of control wasn't a situation Sam was accustomed to. And Dean had been right. No matter what, they couldn't stay.

"Son?"

Sam jerked at the low voice, pulling his head up quickly and blinking blurry eyes.

A man stood before him, looking like an aged Burt Lancaster, soot scuffing the bridge of his nose, a too-big sweatshirt fitting over hospital scrub pants and a gauze pad taped across his forehead.

"Yeah?" Sam replied, memory filling the gaps in his mind that sleep had furrowed. _George… George Cooper._

"Sorry to bother you," George said. "I just… I wanted to thank you and your partner for what you did."

Sam sat up straighter, looking past George to the petite girl standing behind him, staring at a spot just over Sam's head, her blue eyes clear, if a little blood-shot, her porcelain face serene. She gripped the edge of George's sweatshirt with slim, fragile-looking fingers as if wary of him stepping too far away.

"He's my brother," Sam said, clearing his throat.

George nodded, then gestured to the seat next to Sam. "Mind?"

Sam shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from Wren as she moved smoothly behind George, flowing into a seat like water.

"Well," George sighed, his knees popping as he sank slowly into the stiff chair. "If it hadn't been for you and your brother, Wren and I would be talking to Camilla. Much as I miss her, not sure I'm ready for that."

Looking at George, Sam shifted in his seat. "George… what, uh… do you remember what happened?"

Rubbing fingers spotted with age across a mustache-covered upper lip, George shook his head slowly. "Darndest thing… she's never been messy."

Sam frowned. "Uh… who?"

"Camy," George said, nodding in an almost unconscious, habitual manner. "Always kept a clean house, very important to her."

Rubbing at the ache growing above his right eye, Sam sighed. "Maybe you should start at the beginning."

Tapping the top of his leg with the heel of his hand, George nodded again. "She died on a Sunday. Never saw it coming. That morning, she'd told me we needed to talk after the church picnic, but… we never made it home together."

"That was about… six weeks ago, right?" Sam clarified, suppressing a yawn. This was the job. This is why they had been there. This is why Dean was broken in a room down a hall, having his head scanned. This is what they did.

"Right," George said, picking up Wren's small hand and squeezing it. "Wren had been living with us for about a month at that point."

Sam flicked his eyes to the quiet girl, remembering her wail of fear. The sound echoing in his ears was a stark contrast to the peaceful expression facing him now.

"You called the police a couple of weeks after Camilla…" Sam let George fill in the space.

"I kept hearing our song, thought maybe someone was being cruel." George glanced at him. "You never can tell with people these days. Some will give their lives for strangers while others will run you off the road and never look back."

Wren whimpered slightly and George tightened his grip on her hand.

"Is… is that what happened to your… to her parents?" Sam asked, his eyes darting between Wren and George, unsure who would be able to answer him.

"I was in the back seat," she said, her voice lower than Sam had thought when not shot through with panic. "The truck hit us and they just… there was so much blood and…"

"Easy, honey," George cooed. "He understands." George looked at Sam, his meaning clear: _don't ask her any more questions_.

Glancing down, Sam took a breath. "George, tell me about Camilla."

"Camy was happy. _We_ were happy. We never had children, but we had each other," George smiled softly, his brown eyes drifting with memory. "We got that old house and were fixing it up. It was part of the Underground Railroad, you know."

Sam shook his head.

"Yep," George nodded. "Has a trap door in the basement and everything. We were fixing it up, room by room. Started with Wren's room when she came to live with us. Updated the kitchen and the heating and cooling. Camilla loved that house."

"What makes you think she's haunting you?"

George frowned and looked down at the small hand clasped in his larger one. "Like I said, I hear our song. I hear Camy singing _Moonlight Serenade_. I hear it in my sleep and on the phone and in the kitchen when I was in the office…"

"You sure it's Camilla?"

"It's her voice," George nodded. "I should never have called the police, but… well, they're supposed to help you, right?"

Sam looked down again, silent.

"Then things started moving around. Wren's wind chimes would be down on the porch, the birds broken. Books would be moved from shelves, laid open on the table or the bed…"

Sam looked at Wren, noticing the line that divided her eyebrows. Her mouth pulled in, lips growing tight as George talked. Her quiet beauty seemed to filter through the room, softening the lights, hushing the voices. Sam began to feel comforted, settled, peaceful. Simply watching her react to George's story was like holding Jessica, laughing with his brother, feeling his Dad's arms all at once. It was every good thing in his life filling his heart and protecting it.

"…came in and saw that her office was a shambles. I didn't even notice the smell."

Sam blinked, realizing that George had been talking. He pulled his eyes from Wren's features, honing back in on the old man's smooth voice.

"I hear something behind me, but before I could turn to look there was a pain," George paused, touching his forehead. "Next thing I knew, you and your brother were there. And my house… Camy's house blew up."

"I think there was a gas leak," Sam offered.

George nodded. "That's what the police said, too."

Sam went cold. "The police?"

"They're here. They had to investigate, of course. They want to ask you and your brother a couple of questions."

Sam rubbed his mouth, his upper lip suddenly sweaty. "What did you tell them about us, George?"

George looked over at him, the folds around his ancient eyes deepening with confusion. "Just that you saved us."

"Did you tell them our names?"

George smiled. "Son… I don't know your names."

Sam closed his eyes. "Right."

"There something you need to tell me?"

"Sam?"

Sam opened his eyes and shot to his feet at the sound of Dr. Wilde's voice. She smiled at him. "You look tired," she said gently.

"How's Dean?"

"Stubborn."

"Is he awake?"

Dr. Wilde nodded. "He's in a fair amount of pain, but he's refusing IV drugs."

"What about his ears?"

George stood next to Sam, pulled Wren to her feet beside him. "What's wrong with his ears?"

Dr. Wilde focused on Sam. "There's been damage to the drum and the inner ear. I don't see any reason he won't recover his hearing, but it's going to take some time, and I feel I must warn you, the process could be painful."

The frown deepening the lines on Dr. Wilde's face had Sam stepping forward.

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. "Only that your brother appears to be very stubborn, and it's hard to predict what will happen as the eardrum repairs itself. Balance could be affected. The headaches could be severe…"

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "But he'll get better?"

"With time," she nodded. "And patience."

The squawk of a walkie-talkie snapped Sam's head around. Approaching them from the opposite end of the hall were two uniformed officers. They didn't seem to be in a hurry; Sam surmised that the name _Winchester_ had either not been discovered, or it hadn't yet been connected with the bank job in Milwaukee.

"Doc, can he leave?"

Dr. Wilde frowned. "He's been through a pretty traumatic experience," she protested. "I'd really like to keep him for observation."

"Yeah, but," Sam insisted, glancing once more at the officers. "I can take care of him—I've done it before."

Dr. Wilde's dark eyes took him in, pulling truth from his weary face that he didn't bother masking. "I'll give you a prescription for painkillers and antibiotic drops. Make sure he uses both."

"I will."

"I mean it," she stressed. "The pain of a concussion can affect more than anyone realizes."

"I know," Sam nodded. He glanced back at George. "I need to go see my brother, now."

"We'll wait for you," George informed him.

"You don't have—"

"We'll wait," George insisted, guiding Wren back to a chair with a hand at the small of her back.

Sam swallowed, stepping around Dr. Wilde and back through the ER doors before the officers had reached the entrance to the waiting room. He heard Dean the moment he stepped into the bustling area.

"Listen, _Denzel_, I can't hear you, but you sure as hell can hear me. I want my brother and my clothes. In that order."

The black male physician's assistant who'd stitched up Sam's hand was standing at the side of Dean's bed, his hands on Dean's shoulders, his face stern. Sam took in the sight of his brother's pale, drawn face, the visible tremble in his fingers even as they fisted in the man's scrubs.

"Dean," Sam called without thinking. The tone of his brother's voice told him that Dean was at his limit and was taking it out on the physician's assistant with venom.

The PA looked up and Dean followed his eye line. Sam watched relief wash over his face in a wave so keen Sam felt it pang against his heart.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean demanded, but pain clipped off the end of the sentence and dulled the fire of his words.

Sam nodded to the PA. "I got it," he said.

"Tell him my name is Mike," the man said. "Not _Denzel_."

Sam shrugged. "I like Denzel."

Mike shot a look at Sam, and to his relief, grinned slightly. "Yeah, well… who doesn't."

With that, he wrapped the loose IV tubing he'd removed from Dean's arm and set it on a shelf above the bed.

"I'll bring you his clothes," Mike said to Sam, then glanced once more at Dean with a scowl that Dean returned.

Sam smiled his thanks, then stepped up to his brother when Mike left the alcove. He tipped his chin up in a silent question. Dean closed his eyes briefly, exhaling and shaking his head. Sam nodded in acceptance, smiling internally at the secret language they'd developed without realizing. Months of being on the road honed skills of communication that their father had instilled in them through childhood. Ways of feeling each other when they couldn't see, seeing what they couldn't hear, hearing what they couldn't feel.

Die-hard habits that just days ago had made him want to lock Dean in a closet and toss the key may actually save them now.

Dean leaned back on the bed and Sam noticed that the shoulder of his gown had been snapped up, the electrodes removed. His face was pale, lashes brushing shadows on the hollowed-out, purple crescents under his eyes. As if sensing his gaze, Dean lifted a brow and opened one eye.

"What?"

Sam smirked and grabbed the pad of paper they'd been using to communicate.

_You look like Tyler Durden after round four._

Dean grinned. "Hell, Sammy," he said, his voice like gravel. "You know I'm prettier than Brad Pitt."

Mike returned with a plastic bag of smoke-scented clothes. "George wanted me to offer you a ride."

Sam frowned. "He's got a car here?"

Mike shook his head. "Nah," he said. "I'm giving him a ride to the hotel."

Sam glanced at Dean, noting how his brother's eyes were darting between them, trying to absorb _anything_ that he could understand.

"Think you can take us back to George's house? So we can pick up our car?"

Mike shrugged. "Sure. You planning on sticking around?"

Sam pulled in his bottom lip. Dean needed rest. Needed to heal. They'd healed on the road before, but this was different. He needed time. And… there was a job to do. George still had a ghost. Sam lifted his eyes to meet his brothers. Could Dean hunt like this?

"Whatever you're thinking," Dean said softly, "it had better include finishing this bastard."

Sam's lips quirked and he glanced back at Mike. "Yeah, we're sticking around."

"You can follow me to the hotel, then." He looked at the prescriptions clutched in Sam's hand. "I'll get those for you."

Sam nodded and pulled the curtain closed behind Mike. He looked at Dean as his brother rifled through the bag of clothes, his nose wrinkled against the smell. As Dean dressed, he wrote down Mike's message. Dean glanced at it while he slowly pulled on the black suit pants.

"What about my car?"

Sam tapped the pad where he'd written _get Impala_.

"Oh, right" Dean said, pausing suddenly, dressed in only his pants and white T-shirt. He leaned against the bed, closing his eyes and dropping his head.

Sam touched his arm, silently asking if he was okay.

"Gimme a minute," Dean whispered. "Head hurts like a mother."

"Yeah, I can imagine," Sam replied. "Good thing you've got a hard head."

Dean lifted his head and smiled weakly. "Guess it's a good thing I've got a hard head, huh?"

Sam grinned and nodded, handing Dean his shoes. Dean sank on the bed, taking the worn boots from Sam, and slumping tiredly as he regarded his feet. Sam could see exhaustion pressing down around his shoulders like a gray blanket of defeat.

He crouched in front of Dean and looked up at the blood-shot green eyes. Dean met his eyes, then nodded, handing the boots to Sam and allowing his brother to help him. It was an odd feeling, Sam reflected, helping Dean in this way. He'd had to do the same not too long ago when a river and a gambler had tried their best to beat his brother.

_Dean never backs down_, Sam thought. The knowledge both frustrated and balanced him. Dean never backed down.

Once dressed, Dean stood on shaking legs, stuffing his hands into his pockets and curling his shoulders inward in a stance that was at once protective and defensive. Sharing a look, the brothers departed the ER, met up with George, Wren, and Mike, then stepped out into the bright sunlight of mid-day.

www

"Denzel" drove a Ford F-150.

Dark blue with silver trim. Dean ran his hand along the edge of the truck bed to steady himself as well as show his appreciation for a well-tended machine. The extended cab took nothing away from the sturdiness and usability of the bed—the whole point of having a pick-up truck in the first place, as far as Dean was concerned.

The reflection of the sun flashed in his eyes briefly as George opened the passenger front door, causing him to suck in his breath and close his eyes as the brilliance seared like a brand. The girl climbed in, guided by the sure hands of the old man. Dean surmised that she had to be Wren. The reason he ached in places where muscles weren't supposed to exist. The reason his head pulsed like a cartoon character hit by an anvil.

The reason he couldn't hear his brother call his name.

The bitter taste of anger overrode any feeling of mercy he knew he should extend this girl. He forced himself to swallow and jerked open the rear passenger door, climbing in carefully.

As Denzel—_Mike,_ he reminded himself—started up the truck, Dean saw conversation happening around him. He saw Sam nodding, responding, George looking over his shoulder, Mike laughing. The only one still, silence as much a part of her as it was Dean, was Wren. Oddly, he _felt_ her listening. She seemed to pull the sound close to her and roll in it.

He shook his head, banishing the dizzy idea and rested his tender forehead against the cool window. Mike shifted into drive and the big engine responded. Dean felt it humming through his feet, riding his calves and trembling his thighs. He felt the vibration across his face through the window. Closing his eyes, he spread his hands slowly across the vinyl seat, relishing the feel of the machine as it rumbled drunkenly across potholes and rough asphalt.

_When you can't figure out which way to go, take away one of your senses. Use the others. _Dad had been talking about sight. He said eyes can deceive. _Not everything is as you see, and you can't see everything. _

_Never told me how to not hear danger, Dad._

He had one job, one purpose: watch out for Sammy. That directive coupled with the knowledge that he may have to choose between protecting Sam from the world, or the world from Sam, aged him and drove him.

_What am I supposed to do now?_

An odd thrum bounced off of his heartbeat and he opened his eyes. He felt Sam watching him and pressed his lips back, nodding his assurance. The thrum beat again and he frowned, looking up at the front seat as Mike's dark head rolled in an obvious cadence. Sam ticked his finger against the back of Dean's hand, drawing his eyes.

"Country music," Sam mouthed slowly, clearly. Dean winced and Sam nodded.

As Dean closed his eyes again, he felt a smile creep across the bruises.

He _felt _the music.

* * *

_Minnesota, 1994_

_He's punching the air, striking at a figure only he can see. It takes me a moment to truly wake up. It's dark in Jim's house, and the sounds of the road are far away. I think that I'll never sleep in such silence, but then I hear Sam cry out and realize I've been asleep long enough that the sun is once again sneaking into the night._

_My legs are tangled in the sheets. Jim uses flannel sheets—no blankets. Always has. I freeze in the night when we stay here in the winter. We're too big to sleep in the same bed anymore and I'm not enough to keep myself warm._

_"Gotta get out gotta get out gotta get out," Sam is chanting, swinging away into the dark._

_"Hang on, Sammy," I call to him, trying to extricate myself before he stumbles from his bed to escape the vision that captures him in his sleep. "I'm coming."_

_"Can't wait, Dean, can't wait for Dad, gotta get out…"_

_I stumble from the bed, going to one knee as I trip over my duffel, then launch forward like a runner from start position to cross the room, catching him as he leaps free. He pushes against me, fists catching my sternum, the soft spot beneath my ribs, my chin. I bite my tongue, pushing him back harder than I intend to._

_"Stop it!" I order. _

_He freezes at my tone, nightmare sweat plastering strands of long brown hair to his forehead, his eyes still closed._

_"Dean?"_

_"I'm right here."_

_"It was here," he whispers._

_"You were dreaming."_

_"No… no, Dean, it was _here_."_

_"Nobody here but us, man."_

_"I saw it," Sam says, fear liquidating his voice and turning tears to daggers in my heart._

_"Sammy, it's okay, man. You saw it, I know, but it's not here. I'm here."_

_"It could get you."_

_"Naw," I grin, hiking my hip up onto his bed, and shoving at his shoulder. "It's _me_."_

_"Dean, don't let it get you." He finally opens his eyes and I almost want him to close them again._

_"Dad killed it," I remind him. "It's gone, Sammy. I know it was… it was awful under that water. But you held on and Dad got us out, okay? Dad got us out."_

_"_You_ held on."_

_"You bet your ass I did."_

_"You held on to me," he says, his voice small._

_"Well," I shrug, trying not to show the enormity of the weight those words settled on my heart. "You're my brother. Who else am I gonna pick on if I let some bird monster demon…thing… pull you underwater?"_

_Sam shivers and pulls his knees up, tucking his body up against the pillow. I slide backwards on his bed until I'm resting against the wall, my legs straight out. I stare at my feet. I never really noticed my feet much. I like them better when I don't think about them._

_"Dean?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"What if Dad isn't around to kill the next one?"_

_I swallow. Sam spoke my one fear: the moment it's up to me. The moment I truly do stand between Sam and real darkness. The moment Dad isn't here._

_"Then we'll take care of it together," I answer, not looking at him. "I won't let anything happen to you, Sammy."_

_I reach for him, like I used to when we were kids, and grab his hand. I slap the back of it against my chest, holding it there. My heartbeat bounces against his hand._

_"You feel that?"_

_Sam nods._

_"I'm not going anywhere."_

_He slouches deeper into the bed. "Can't sleep," he yawns._

_When Sam was little, Dad would sing to him. Mostly when he was sick, but it always worked. I chew my lip, rubbing at the knot at the back of my neck. His hand is still pressed against my chest and I shift sideways in the bed._

_"_Frozen in the place I hide. Not afraid to paint my sky with some who say I've lost my mind. Brother try and hope to find. You were always so far away, I know that pain so don't you run away like you used to do_…"_

_"I can feel you singing," he says. _

_I roll so that I'm staring up at the ceiling. Out of the corner of my eyes I see the shadow of Pastor Jim as he steps away from the open door._

www

When they pulled up to George Cooper's shell of a house, Sam had to look away. The image of the fireball, the slam of heat, the cold snake of fear that had only wrapped itself tighter around his heart in the moments since were too vivid.

The same jolt of pain that always sliced across his chest when he remembered Jessica's frozen terror, or his father's body on the linoleum floor, shook him thinking about the possibility of losing Dean.

Mike halted the truck. "That your car?" he asked, nodding to the Impala.

"That's her," Sam said, reaching for Dean's curled form. He'd fallen asleep almost as soon as the truck began moving, and Sam hated to wake him.

"Nice," Mike commented.

"Uh, thanks," Sam answered. "Dean. Dean, hey," he said, the habit of calling his brother's attention before touching him too strong to simply squelch in the hours that had passed. He gripped Dean's shoulder.

The reaction was expected but none-the-less startling. Dean jerked, his hand launching out to grab Sam's wrist and twist it away. He pressed his back against the door and swung out with his free hand, forcing Sam to catch it or get clocked.

Then, Dean opened his eyes.

"Sam?"

Sam smiled weakly, waiting until Dean relaxed before he released his brother's hand. Dean rubbed at his bruised face.

"Jesus, man, why didn't you say—" Dean stopped mid-rant, dropping his hand and looking at Sam, the color leeched from his face as memory flooded back. He rubbed at his neck just below his ears. "We here?"

Sam nodded. Dean looked out at what was left of the house and Sam recognized the same look of horror in his brother's eyes that he knew had been in his at the sight.

"Well, let's get going then," Dean rasped, nodding at Mike. "Thanks, Denzel." He opened the door, and moved stiffly to the ground.

Sam touched George's shoulder. "Listen," he started. "This… thing with your wife? It's kinda what my brother and I do."

George was watching Dean limp toward the Impala. "He's hurting, Son."

"Yeah, I know."

"You got enough on your plate without—"

"Actually," Sam interrupted. "Neither of us do well with down time. We'll be in touch."

"Won't be hard to find," George twisted around to look at Sam. "We're gonna be staying at the same hotel."

"Oh, right," Sam nodded, looking over at Mike. "We can follow you?"

Mike nodded. "Trust Denzel," he said, rolling his eyes.

Sam chuckled and climbed out of the truck. Chris LeDoux echoed behind him from the radio as he joined Dean at the car. Dean waited by the driver's side mostly, Sam guessed, out of habit, leaning against the closed door and staring vacantly inside.

"You aren't driving," Sam said.

Dean didn't flinch.

Sam tapped his shoulder, and Dean looked up. "No," Sam said simply.

Dean pressed his lips out in a pout, moving around to the other side of the car like a child told to go to his room.

Once inside the Impala, they breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

"Good to be home," Dean muttered, running his hands across the dash. For a brief moment, he winced, his face folding in as a flash of pain washed over him. He grunted, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

Sam waited, watching. After a moment, Dean straightened.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean muttered. "It's like the worst ice cream headache in the world times ten…"

Sam's eyebrows folded up and he reached out to squeeze Dean's shoulder in sympathy.

"Y'know what's weird?" Dean said rubbing at his ears again. "When it… flashes like that… I can… I almost hear something… like… hissing or something…"

"Can you hear me now?" Sam joked, knowing Dean saw his lips move.

"Very fuckin' funny," Dean muttered, looking away.

"Wait," Sam frowned. "Dean, did you… hear what I said?"

"Start her up, Sam," Dean requested, not hearing Sam's last question as he focused on something outside of the car. His hands were spread across the dark dash, his blunt fingers pressing hard enough to turn the tips white.

Sam shoved the keys in the ignition, firing up the engine. In his periphery, he saw Dean's eyes flutter closed. He looked over and realized that Dean's whole being had shifted—relief was evident. Sam chuckled.

"God, I missed her," Dean sighed, settling back and resting his hands flat against the bench seat as Sam pulled out behind Mike.

Sam shook his head. "It's barely been two days."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Sam leaned over and turned on the radio, cranking the volume high. Dean followed the movement of his hand with his eyes, a smile creasing his bruised face when the bass beat through the car.

Sam watched as Dean pressed his hand against the glass, one leg flat on the inside of the door, the other up against the dash. Splayed out like he was, Sam could practically see the sound waves from the music working their way into his brother's blood stream.

Dean closed his eyes and tipped his head back, waiting.

The radio DJ came on, announcing something new by Staind, promising they were going to like this one, and Sam turned onto another road, following Mike close enough that he could read the truck's Delaware license plate.

"_All the smiles you've had to fake, and all the shit you've had to take, just to lead us here again. I never have the things to say to make it all just go away, to make it all just disappear. Believe in me; I know you've waited for so long. Believe in me; sometimes the weak become the strong. Believe in me; this life's not always what it seems…"_

The music filled the car, and the lyrics drew Sam away from the moment. Away from the unnatural silence in the seat next to him. Away from the fact that _he_ was behind the wheel only because Dean _couldn't _be.

The hotel sign met his eyes in the distance. It was nicer than places they usually stayed. He wasn't sure how they were going to—

"Here," Dean said suddenly, poking him with the edge of a credit card. "Use this one."

Sam pulled to a stop in the parking lot, then looked down. Elroy McGillacuddy. He looked at Dean.

His brother stared out of the window, bouncing the glove box he'd extricated the card from closed with his knee. "I save it for emergencies," he said simply.

Sam pulled his lips in, biting the fleshy insides, and nodded. Leaving Dean to wait for him in the car, Sam went inside to get a room, making sure it was on the same floor as George and Wren. He returned to find Dean slumped on the bumper of the car, waiting for him to open the trunk.

"Man, Dean, you look like crap," he muttered, approaching his exhausted brother. Dean didn't look up as Sam approached. He gently shoved him aside to open the trunk and pulled out their duffels, wincing when the straps flexed against the stitches in his palm.

"Gimme one," Dean said tiredly.

"I got it," Sam answered.

"Quit being a stubborn ass," Dean grumbled. "I know your hand hurts."

He grabbed one of the duffels and turned away.

"_You're_ the stubborn ass," Sam muttered, grabbing the weapons bag, slamming the lid shut, and stepping around his brother to lead the way to the room.

They went inside, looking around. Newer décor, newer carpet, newer A/C… same set up.

"People spend money on the craziest stuff," Dean mumbled, dropping his bag on the foot of the nearest bed, then falling across the mattress.

Sam regarded him a moment, then set his bags down. He fished out the meds Mike had filled for them, dropping down on the bed near his prone brother. He shook Dean's shoulder.

"Hey."

Dean pushed at him weakly.

"Dean."

"Wanna sleep."

"I know you wanna sleep, man, but you need these."

Dean didn't stir. Sam sighed and pushed at Dean again, keeping it up until he knew his brother would roll over just to get away from his hand.

"Jesus Christ! You're like a freakin' giant… gnat," Dean growled, rolling over and holding his head. "Holy hell, Sammy."

"Hurts, huh?" Sam said, sympathy thick in his voice.

"Hurts like a bitch," Dean said, as if answering him. "This seriously sucks out loud. Tell me you have something on this ghost, man."

Sam sighed. He gently tapped Dean's hand away from his face, holding up the pain pills.

"No," Dean shook his head, his eyes bleary.

Sam stared at him, hard. "You're in pain, Dean."

"I'm not taking any pills until we know more about what's going on," Dean pushed at Sam's hand, clumsily shoving himself to the edge of the bed, away from Sam.

"Dammit, you can be such an asshole, Dean!" Sam snapped, standing and rounding the bed to face his brother. "You're taking this medicine."

Dean didn't look at him, apparently knowing what Sam was doing simply by his stance. When Sam stepped forward, Dean stood, weakly pushing against Sam.

"Dean—"

"Sam, stop it, just stop," Dean pressed his palms on Sam's chest, his eyes centering on Sam's throat, his own throat working convulsively. "Something was in that house… something hurt that guy, tried to go after the girl… I… I _saw_ something."

"You saw something?" Sam repeated, too caught up in the moment to remember that Dean wouldn't hear him.

"It's like… trying to remember a dream," Dean said softly, his eyes darting as he searched the shadows of his memory. "I think I have it and then it… slips away." He looked up at Sam. "But something was there. That much I know."

Sam nodded, taking a breath. "Okay, we'll look into it," he said, watching Dean's eyes narrow on his mouth as his brother tried to figure out what he was saying. He slowed down, enunciating each word. "We'll figure it out. But after you get some rest."

"No!" Dean pushed atSam, knocking him away and off balance. "No, Sam, I mean it. Quit trying to take me out of this fight. I'm in it, dammit!"

Sam blinked, surprised, taking a step further away from Dean. "I'm not—"

"Those pills will make me all… foggy and I can't think. I need to be there, Sam. I need to be _in this_. It's all I—_ah!_"

This time when the pain hit him, Dean doubled over, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples.

"Dean?"

"Sonuvabitch," Dean breathed. "Don't talk… shhh… don't… don't talk."

"Are you—" Sam almost bit off his tongue to keep from speaking again when Dean went to his knees, his face balled up with pain, sweat beading on his bruised forehead.

Afraid that even his footsteps on the carpet would cause his brother more pain, Sam held still, waiting. He wanted to go to him, to offer him assurance, support, some sort of solidarity. But he didn't move. He waited and he watched as Dean's body shook with wave after wave of pain, his muscles tightening beneath his shirt in visible ridges. Soon, Dean relaxed slightly, sagging to his side on the floor, drawing in great gulps of breath, pressing the back of his hand against his pale lips.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed. "I almost like hearing nothing better than… everything at once."

Sam stepped close, gently eased Dean to a sitting position, then helped him up on the bed. Dean sat with his elbows on his knees, his head resting in the net of his fingers. Crouching down in front of his brother, Sam caught Dean's eyes, speaking slowly.

"If I promise to look into this ghost, will you please take these pills?"

Dean stared at him a moment. Sam held his breath. A drop of sweat ran down the side of Dean's face, bouncing a trail through the rough stubble of scruff along his jaw.

"Yeah, okay," Dean finally sighed.

Sam stood, grabbing the pills and a glass. He filled the glass with water, then returned to find Dean exactly as he'd left him.

"Drops," Sam said, holding up the small vile. "Ears."

"Fine," Dean said, a groan leaking out as he eased slowly down on the bed, offering first one ear then the other to Sam.

Sam watched his hand tremble as he squeezed the clear liquid into Dean's ears, noting the crusted blood on the edges of his lobes.

"Feels weird, man," Dean slurred.

"I'll bet," Sam replied softly, then handed Dean the pain pills and water.

It took two minutes for Dean to find a comfortable position on the bed, another five for the pills to take effect. Sam sat on the chair across the room, watching his brother fall, feeling his own body tick like a cooling engine. He stood when Dean's breath was slow and even, pulling the worn work boots from Dean's feet and flipping the edge of the comforter over his brother's body.

As Dean slept, Sam searched. Time well-spent surfing the Internet and hacking into sites normally denied the average user often times brought him a surplus of information. He found the 911 transcripts of George's initial calls, the coroner's report of Camilla's death. He didn't find an autopsy report, but surmised that since the local doctor had declared it a heart attack, none had been performed. He found the report about Camilla and George taking in Wren, but nothing on the girl's parents, save her report in the article.

He found the cemetery where Camilla was buried.

He looked over at his brother.

…_something was there. That much I know…_

George was certain Camilla was haunting him, and Dean was certain something was going on. Sam knew of one sure-fire way to rid someone of a ghost. He stood, his decision made.

He slipped Dean's Bowie from the weapons duffel, sliding it beneath Dean's pillow. Just knowing it was within Dean's dangerous reach made Sam breathe easier. Leaving Dean to sleep, a note on his whereabouts on the pillow next to his brother, Sam headed for the Impala.

Finding the cemetery wasn't hard. Finding the grave was even easier. Waiting for silence and night was a test of his patience. Digging up the grave tore the stitches in his hand and smeared blood on the shovel handle.

Dean was going to kill him for leaving in the first place; coming back with a bloody hand would be icing on a bitter cake.

But what Sam found inside the casket would trump any ill-conceived escape, any bloody return.

Camilla Cooper had died six weeks ago; Sam knew he wouldn't find bones to salt and burn. He'd prepared himself for the battering his tired body would receive getting to the corpse. He'd prepared himself for the smell of decay and rot that slammed into him with the creak of the unused hinges. He'd prepared himself for the sight of a human face melting away with the cleansing of salt-fueled fire.

He hadn't prepared himself to see Camilla Cooper's body rolled over, laying face-down in her own coffin.

* * *

a/n: So not as much action in this chapter, but there's more to come. Hope you stick with me as I continue to play around with the boys' senses… And some of you know of the Father Fiasco that befell me of late, erasing most of the first draft of this chapter. I appreciate you hanging in there this extra week.

I do not take one of you for granted.

Playlist:

_Brother _by Alice in Chains

_Believe_ by Staind (Sanderspleen, that one's for you, girl)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1

a/n: The fun thing about writing to an outline is that even with a plan, I end up surprising myself. I thought this would be a four-chapter story with an epilogue, but as this chapter rolled out of me, I realized I was going to need a bit more space to tell the story I had planned. So while it might not be my standard 8, it's gonna be more than 5.

_is amused at self…_

So that I could post while my fantastic beta, Kelly, was on vacation my friend, mentor, and the virtual slap whenever I'm in need, **Thru Terry's Eyes**, stepped in and gave this a quick read. BIG thanks to you, T! But, Kelly's back (YAY!) and I've fixed the minor mistakes she found. So, whew. All is well.

_music plays on…_

* * *

_Only that in you which is me can hear what I'm saying._

_- Baba Ram Dass_

www

For a moment, he almost forgot.

The pain upon waking the first time was enough to encourage him to roll back into the black, floating on a gentle ebb of whispers, cradled in shapeless arms that simply _felt_ safe.

The second time he woke, however, the peace of darkness eluded him. The aches in his back and legs, across his shoulders and neck, in his jaw all cried out at once, demanding attention.

_Now._

He worked to stifle an immediate groan, only realizing when it wouldn't be quieted that he'd once again gained awareness in a world that was, for him, wrapped in silence.

Opening his eyes a fraction, Dean found that Sam had turned all lights off except the small lamp in the far corner of the room. With the heavy curtains pulled, he had no concept of time, no idea how long he'd been sleeping.

"Sam?" he called, feeling the edge of his voice dig into the soft flesh of his throat. He was so thirsty.

He blinked, his vision swimming, and raised a heavy hand to bat at what felt like cobwebs strung across his face as the remnants of drugged sleep began to slowly fade away.

_I hate those damn pills,_ he moaned silently. _Feel hungover without the party…_

"Sam!"

Pushing himself carefully over onto his back, Dean flung out his hand to rid his sweaty, grimy, smoke-saturated body of the covers Sam had apparently wrapped him in after he'd fallen asleep.

_Passed out is more like it…_

"Where the hell… Sam!"

Raising himself to his elbows, he looked around the slowly spinning room, feeling the sensation of fluid shifting and rolling in his ears. Knotting his face up in disgust, Dean reached up and wiped at the wetness that seeped from his left ear, looking down at the pillow where he'd been laying on his right side. It was damp.

"Swell."

Using the back of his hand, he dried the remnants of the drops Sam had put in his ears, noting how tender his neck was to the touch, just below his earlobes.

Shuffling drunkenly to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, Dean catalogued the protests of his muscles, promising himself the heat of a shower as soon as he could get the earth to cooperate. It spun lazily, tipping first one way, then the other. Dean closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose, working to steady himself, stilling the trembles that began in his belly and traveled through his chest to escape from his fingertips.

Curling over, he propped his elbows on his knees and dug furrows through his short tufts of hair, resisting the growing pressure on the inside of his head by holding his fragile skull together with his palms. His ruined suit pants were bunched uncomfortably around his calves, his white button-down un-tucked and twisted around his waist.

The odd, ozone-like smell of the air conditioning unit met his nose and once again he felt the kick in his gut at not having heard the all-too-familiar _snap-click_ of the unit switching on when the room became too warm.

He felt a rumble at the base of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a moan. He needed to take control, to regain his balance. Rolled in a semi-ball, he felt himself rocking a bit with the rhythm of his own heartbeat as it pounded through his body, timing his breath to the throb of his head, trying to mask the pain with motion.

_Hospital… Mike's truck… Impala… music… hotel room… birds…_

Dean froze.

Birds?

There hadn't been… _birds_ in the hotel room.

He pressed his fingertips over his eye lids, feeling the soft, fragile skin, the sting against his eyes. He _had _seen birds. _A_ bird. Big and black with yellow eyes and talons that had been ready to rend him apart. Wings… wings had spread from beneath the arms of someone reaching for him. Someone he thought he knew…

"Sam!" he called once more, not understanding why his brother hadn't responded. Straightening up, Dean looked around, locating the bathroom on the other side of Sam's empty bed. He could see by the reflection in the mirror that the bathroom door stood open, the interior of the small room dark.

Frowning, Dean started to push himself out of bed, his hand landing on something different in texture from the cotton sheets. He looked down, finding a piece of paper with Sam's unmistakable handwriting scrawled across it.

"What the hell…"

Squinting in the dim light of the shadowed hotel room, Dean held the paper close, trying to make out the words.

_Dean—_

_Didn't want to wake you. Found Camilla's grave. Taking care of this now so you can heal up. Don't worry, I'll be right back._

"Son of a bitch!" Dean balled up the paper, throwing it across the room at the intense protest of his shoulder muscles. "You gotta be kidding me!"

Pushing himself to a wavering stance, Dean stumbled across the room to the curtained windows. Light from a half-moon illuminated a nearly-empty parking lot several floors below, showing him that just as Sam's note implied, the Impala was gone.

Gripping the curtains in tight fists, Dean leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. His eyes down, he saw the line of salt stretching across the length of the windowsill. Without looking, he knew another one would be at the base of the door, despite the fact that it opened into a hall and not the outside. Sam had been taught well.

_Damn you, Sam, I am a part of this. _

Twice before, Sam had left him. Once of his own accord. Neither time had there been a note, but the hollow feeling that scooped out his lungs was the same now as it had been then. Sam was gone, leaving him behind when he couldn't protest.

And this time, Dean was wrapped in silence.

Growling, Dean stepped back, ripping at the heavy, dark curtains, popping them from the metal fasteners. He tumbled to the floor with their weight, the brightness of the moon illuminating the room around him, bathing his face in quiet light, dazzling his eyes.

Pressing the palm of his hand against his head, he swore roughly, viciously. He couldn't hear the venom in his voice, but he felt the words vibrate in his chest, bounce at the base of his throat. He tried it again, pressing the air out harder, faster, meaner.

"_FUUUUCK!"_

Spots of white light and dark blurs of shadow danced at the corners of his eyes and his pulse hammered against his temples. His instant of euphoric release was replaced with the unmistakable taste of bile at the back of his throat. Scrambling on his hands and knees, Dean made it to the bathroom, slamming the toilet lid up and gripping the cold porcelain sides as he heaved.

The muscles across his back and along his ribs protested the violent motion and sweat coated his skin, chilling him. He kept his eyes closed and when he was once again hollow, he reached up and depressed the lever, flushing the evidence of his weakness away.

His body empty, his mouth sour, his throat dry, Dean fell limply back against the stem of the pedestal sink, pressing his sweaty palms flat against the small tiles of the floor, digging his fingertips into the grouted edges.

_Taking care of this now... dammit, Sam..._

Logic told him the nausea was from the concussion, but frustration had him blaming Sam. For the pain, for the sickness, for the whole damn reason he'd been hurt in the first place.

_Get a grip, Winchester._

Reaching above him to grip the edge of the sink with a shaking hand, Dean pulled himself slowly to his feet, then twisted the faucet. The water fell silently into the basin. He stared at it in the dim light sneaking around the corner of the bathroom from the now-exposed window.

It sparkled. Tilting his head to the side, Dean let his eyes lose focus as he watched the water separate into individual drops catching the luminescent glow of the moon and fall in quiet slow motion to swirl around the outer edge of the drain, tumbling down the pipe in a rush to whatever reservoir would capture it for eventual return.

Carefully lifting his head, wary of too swift a movement, Dean's eyes skimmed over his rough reflection in the mirror and looked at the shower. Turning off the water in the sink, he used the tiled wall for balance and stumbled toward the curtain, pulling it back, knowing there was a metal-on-metal _shink_, but not hearing it. He twisted the larger faucet and pulled the shower tab.

In the shadow of the bathroom door, hidden from the moonlight, the water fell from the shower head. He knew what the sound should be. Knew the waterfall rush it should have made, knew the hollow _plunk_ each drop should have echoed in the plastic cavern of the bathtub.

The world was muted.

Staring at the almost-invisible water, Dean felt his breath pump through his chest, increasing in speed and forcefulness as panic took hold. He began to pant for air, pressed his bracing hand as flat against the wall as the curve of his palm would allow. His vision dipped and his throat rasped.

_When you can't figure out which way to go, take away one of your senses. Use the others. _

"Aw, fuck, Dad…" Dean gasped aloud, closing his eyes against the memory of his father's voice. "Fuckfuck_fuck_."

The panic drew fresh beads of sweat across his upper lip, spilling it in a spider-like crawl down his neck. The silence was so loud it seemed to press on him; the air itself was pushing him to the ground. Falling to his knees, Dean wrapped his arms around his head tucking his chin to his chest.

The hard tile bruised his already battered legs, the chill from the air conditioning in the outer room seeped through his now-sweaty clothes, but Dean didn't move. He curled as tight as his wounded body would allow, trying to block out the quiet, the lack of balance… the absence of Sam's voice.

Forcing himself to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth, Dean narrowed his focus to that one memory: the sound of Sam's voice. He'd know his brother anywhere. Know him in the dark. Because he could _hear_ Sam. Could hear him think. Knew the pattern of his breathing, knew the level of worry by the way Sam said his name.

Slowly uncurling, aware of the humid cling of steam now filling the bathroom, Dean squeezed his closed eyes as tight as he could, focusing on the way Sam's face looked when he said _Dean._ The way his lips seemed to stretch flat when it was said in panic, the way his chin dropped with a slight tick when he said it in annoyance, the tremble of his bottom lip when he said it as a plea.

Dean knew many things by touch: guns, ammunition, the Impala, women. But his brother had always been _sound_ to him. The cry of a nightmare, the bubble of a laugh, the nasal tones of a discontented whine. The crash of a slamming door. The whisper of a promise, an apology.

The sound of need.

"Focus," Dean said, just to feel his lips move. To feel the caress of air across his sticky tongue.

Shifting up in a sitting position, back against the base of the tub, feet against the tile, elbows on knees, fists pressed into his eyes, Dean drew a mental picture of his brother.

Sam's hands poised over a keyboard, fingers flying, eyes darting as information on a printout or monitor was absorbed. Lip curling in anger. Arm raised to strike, eyes full of wonder as an angel spoke to him.

"Okay… okay," Dean nodded frailly, filing more away as he continued to narrow his focus.

Carhart jacket, denim shirt, jeans without holes, sneakers, too-long hair. No rings, no amulet, nothing else that made him _Sam_ except… except those eyes. Those damn cat eyes that showed too much and not enough. Those eyes that could gut Dean while simultaneously pissing him off. Those eyes that were all _Sam_.

The cool hand on the back of his neck sent Dean's heart shooting from his chest to the top of his head. He jerked violently back and away from the unexpected touch, bouncing off of the edge of the tub and slipping on the now-damp tile floor.

"Jesus _Christ_!"

Crouching in front of him was a pale-skinned girl with short, dark hair wisping away from her face in tufts. Trying to catch his breath, Dean put a hand up, keeping her away.

"What fu—"

It wasn't until she moved forward, despite his warning hand, that he saw her eyes. Clear, china-blue, wide, and completely blank. They stared just over his shoulder, reflecting no light or awareness of any kind.

"Wren?"

She paused, and nodded.

"How the… what are you… is Sam with you?"

Dean pushed himself to his feet, still backing away from her until he was pressed into the corner between the pedestal sink and the bathtub. Wren shook her head, a line appearing between her dark brows. She started to speak, her face animated, lips moving, and stepped toward him once more.

The spill of silent words between them, offering him explanation, offering warning, telling him what he needed to be ready for, what he needed to fight, was too much.

Dean broke.

Launching himself forward, he grabbed her arms, forcing her back against the opened bathroom door, bouncing the handle against the wall as the weight of their bodies collided with the wood.

"How the _hell _did you get in here?! Where is Sam?!"

Wren jerked back from the velocity of his words and pulled her face away, twisting in his grasp, trying to escape. Her lips moved rapidly, only serving to infuriate him more with their empty meaning. He shook her.

"_Where is Sam_?!"

Twisting her arm roughly with a surprising display of strength, Wren pointed toward the hotel room. Dean looked away from her too-pale face toward the dimly lit, still empty room and saw that the door was standing open, the line of salt he'd known would be there now scattered in a sweeping arc at the base.

He looked back at Wren. "How'd you get it open? Thought you were blind."

Wren didn't look up. Her eyes rested on the button of his shirt just below his throat, her fingers nervously twisting in his sleeves as he held her arms in an iron-like grip. His jaw began to ache as he worked to maintain some semblance of control.

He shook her again, but not as hard.

"Are you blind or not?!"

She flinched at his voice and spoke, pointing again to the door. Anger began to build, hot and tight, in his chest. He felt the pull of his muscles across his back and tightened his grip on her arms in rebellion.

"Hope you're not telling me the door was freakin' _open_, 'cause I know that's not true."

Wren lifted her face, her eyes still not on his, the bend of the moonlight casting odd, wing-like shadows across her face from her hair. Her expression was serene and oddly, completely still. Everything about her was suddenly still.

Dean frowned, stepping back and slowly forcing himself to release her arms. If he closed his eyes in this moment he wouldn't know she was standing here. _What the hell?_

"I… can't even… smell you…" he muttered, realizing that his own scent—ashes, fire, sweat, leather—permeated the entire bathroom.

Dean watched the moonlight dance across her features and whispered, more to himself than to her, "What are you doing here?"

Her throat flashed as she took a breath, a quick heartbeat of movement, and Dean froze. Wren closed the space between them, stepping close enough that her coolness combated with the steam wafting around them. She reached up, fingers fumbling first at his collar, then glancing across his throat to meet his jaw line.

Dean caught his breath. For just a moment as she touched him, he heard the wind. He heard it rushing through his ears like a familiar friend, the calm before the storm, the cool on a summer's day.

Wren's fingers wavered a bit, skipping over the coarse stubble that framed his chin, sliding softly across his lips. Her other hand followed in a twin path until her fingers found his cheekbones, her thumbs almost caressing the upward path of his nose to the bridge between his eyes.

His lids fluttered closed as the tips of her fingers brushed his lashes, smoothing the worried creases at the edges of his eyes. She finished the journey of his face as her palms found his temples, pressing gently and easing the incessant ache there.

Dean parted his lips to ask her what the hell she was doing when inexplicably he heard a voice, a whisper of words, as if it was already inside his head.

"We are spirits clad in veils…"

He opened his eyes and _sound_ slammed into him. Everything—his heartbeat, his breathing, the sound of Wren swallowing, her feet shuffling back away from him, the water hitting the tile in the bathtub, even the stir of salt in the open doorway as the air conditioning reacted to the steam from the shower—hit him with painful immediacy.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped as the pain rode over him, bringing his hands to his tender ears and his knees once again to the tile floor. "Oh, damn…"

It was too much.

There was no filter, no guard. He couldn't hear anything over the noise of everything. His head filled with sound until the pressure would surely make it burst. Crying out once more, he curled in, pressing his forehead to the damp floor, oblivious of Wren's stumbling flight from the room, uncaring of her ability to break into _their_ hotel room.

Lost in the cacophony of noise he cried out for the relief of the one thing that frightened him most: s_ilence._

* * *

_Minnesota, 1994_

_I am watching Sam sleep. _

_I can hear the repetitive tick of Pastor Jim's round-faced alarm clock marking the seconds that I sit here, awake, aware, while Sam is at last wrapped in oblivion. It was another bad one, this nightmare. It took everything in me _not_ to call to Pastor Jim to help._

_But I did it. I got him quieted down and now I'm watching him sleep. I find myself wondering if I will spend my life watching Sam. If I'll be sitting up, reading something to pass the time, one eye on him while he sleeps, peacefully or trapped in a nightmare, when we're in our twenties. Our thirties. When we're old._

_I can't imagine anything else. How could we know what we know, do what we do, and ever live differently than this? This will be my life. Sam's life. I'll always have my brother._

_And I hate that with a fierceness that I can't even explain to myself._

_"Dean."_

_Pastor Jim's soft call from the doorway startles me and I have my hand beneath my pillow before I've fully registered that it's him._

_"Come here," he commands, and I hear an endearment swallowed. He used to call me 'son' when I was a kid, but I stopped that. I'm not his 'son.' Only Dad can call me that. Only Dad._

_"What?" I whisper back, belligerently._

_"Just, come here."_

_"Sam's sleeping," I say._

_"Exactly," Jim replies._

_I stare at him a moment and he stares back. I can't read his eyes. It is one of those things that unnerves me about Pastor Jim. He has dark brown eyes, like Dad's, but they aren't sheltered. I see no judgment, no pride, no expectation in them. Just peace. _

_I don't know what to do with peace._

_Sighing, I rise and shove the tangle of flannel sheets behind me, moving on silent feet past the foot of Sam's bed. He's snoring slightly, his thick hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty strings left over from the fight against the dark._

_"We won't be far," Jim says to me. "You'll hear if he needs you."_

_Nodding, I follow him from the room, down the short, dark hall, and to the front door. The screen is open and the cement stoop is almost white from the light of the full moon. Jim leads the way outside, sitting down next to what looks like a tackle box, his legs hanging over the edge of the stoop, toes touching the ground._

_"Sit," he says. _

_I stay standing, watching him. It's just after midnight, and the air is chilled. The moon allows for enough light that I can see the whole area around Jim's house. I shiver slightly as the night wind stirs the treetops. I'm wearing a pair of Dad's old sweats, cut off just below my knees, the draw string pulled tight, and a black AC/DC T-shirt with a cannon on the front. My feet are bare and the cement is cold and rough against my toes. I shuffle my weight._

_"Dean, sit down."_

_I move to the edge, putting the tackle box between us and sit on the stoop. My feet don't come close to touching the ground. At fourteen, my body has started to betray me in ways I hadn't expected and have little experience dealing with. The most disconcerting aspect being clumsiness. I feel like my legs and arms are too long, and the muscles that my Dad makes Sam and I work each day are wrapped around bones and protected by skin—but nothing else. _

_I'm skinny and awkward and I do my best to hide it._

_"You remember the first time you came here?" Jim is asking. _

_I pull my attention away from my bony knees, the muscles from my thighs jutting out around the edge._

_"I was five," I say._

_"I didn't ask how old you were," Jim says, lifting his face up as if asking someone for patience. I feel slightly contrite, knowing I push him. _

_"Yeah, I remember," I say._

_We had gone to stay with Mom's relatives for a bit after the fire, but something happened. I know now that Dad started looking into the demon, but at the time, all I knew was that the adults were yelling and words filtered into the room where I sat in Sam's crib, holding him. _

_Words like, "take them away from you" and "never see them again."_

_I was scared the first time Dad put us in the truck, Sam's car seat in the middle between us, and we started driving into the night. I wanted my bed, my room, my Mom. I got Pastor Jim instead. We didn't stay here long, but back then, as now, while we're here, Dad isn't. _

_And I am always lonely._

_"You had bad dreams, too," Jim says._

_"So?"_

_"You still have bad dreams, Dean?"_

_I don't answer him._

_"You remember what I gave you?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Still have it?"_

_"It's in the Impala," I reply. _

_Everything is in that car. Everything that matters. _

_"I want you to make one for Sam."_

_"Huh?" I look over at him, surprised out of my sullenness._

_With the tip of his blunt finger, Jim reaches over and taps the gold face of the Egyptian amulet Sam gave me for Christmas a few years ago. He'd meant it as a gift to Dad, but, disappointed once again that Dad didn't follow through and live up to Sam's almost-impossible expectations, he'd changed his mind and given it to me._

_I never cared that I wasn't meant to be its original owner. I never take it off. _

_"That's a symbol of protection," Jim states matter-of-factly._

_"Yeah, so?"_

_"So, your brother gave it to you, right?"_

_"Right," I hedge, not tracking._

_"He wanted you protected, even if he didn't realize what he was doing. He wanted a way to show you that you are necessary in his life. Needed. A way for him to know that no matter what, you'll always come back to him."_

_I nod stiffly, not sure what I might be walking into if I agree too quickly. I'm staring at him. At his casual clothes and rebellious hair. He may dress like a hunter, but a stranger would know it isn't his day job. There is just something about the way he…breathes. The way his hands move. As if he has a secret. _

_Jim takes advantage of my attention. "Listen to me, Dean," he says, his voice like Dad's. Gravel-rough but somehow mellow. Comforting and chilling at the same time. "You are just his brother."_

_I pull my head back. "I know that."_

_"You are _not_ his father, not his savior."_

_I frown. He has said something like this to me before. When we came here after the shtriga. He tried to convince me that Sam almost getting killed wasn't my fault. I didn't believe him then, either._

_"What's your point?" I snap._

_"One day, Sam's going to be able to take care of himself."_

_I shrug. "Okay…"_

_"You're going to have to let go when that happens. You're going to have to…not come back."_

_"He's just a kid," I shake my head, dismissing the notion of not being around Sam with a quick wave of my hand. _

_Adults can be so dramatic sometimes. _One day_ and _now_ are worlds apart. So Sammy is going to take care of himself one day, that's not _now_. Why do I have to think about letting him go _now_ when he still needs me?_

_"I just want you to realize that it's okay."_

_"That what's okay?"_

_"To let him go."_

_I sigh. "Listen," I shift on the cement, resting a hand on my thigh. I never call him 'Pastor Jim' to his face. It feels too separate, too removed from what he was to me. I just make sure he's aware that I'm talking to him. "I know you care about us, okay? I'm real grateful for that. I knew this is where Sam needed to be after we saw… well, after. I just… I don't need you telling me this stuff, okay? Sam's mine. We're okay."_

_Pastor Jim blinks at me. I settle my mouth in a straight line, amazed that I surprised him. He just seems to… know everything. _

_"_You_ wanted to come here?" he asks._

_I nod._

_"What did you see, Dean?"_

_I look away. The image of that…thing…reaching for Sam, only pulling away when Dad hit it with the blood-tipped arrow…I swallow._

_"Doesn't matter," I say. _

_"Maybe it does," Jim offers._

_"It doesn't," I assert. "I just knew that if Dad was going to… to leave again," I find it strange that my mouth is suddenly dry, "Sam needed to be where he could… y'know, get over the dreams. Like I did."_

_"Did you?"_

_"Yes," I answer quickly. "I'm fine."_

_"It's okay to need someone once in awhile, Dean."_

_I roll my eyes. "God," I mutter. "Why are you always giving me permission to be weak?"_

_Jim blinks again. I almost smirk, but catch myself. I've caught him by surprise twice in one conversation. This is a new record for me._

_"Weak?"_

_"Telling me things that I did wrong aren't my fault, or that it's okay to need someone… you're like… Obi-Wan to Dad's Darth Vader."_

_Jim frowns._

_"Forget it. You've probably never seen _Star Wars_."_

_"Actually, I've seen it several times," he says, surprising me this time. "I'm just wondering why you compare your father to Darth Vader."_

_I close my mouth with a click. I hadn't meant it that way, but when he says it, I realize that part of me thinks it's true. We sit in silence for a few moments, Jim not bringing up my slip, me not venturing further into what that might mean._

_I feel Jim letting his words sink into me, and I resist them. I know my job. I've known it since I was six years old. Watch out for Sammy. Dad fights the monsters. We fight the monsters. I watch out for Sammy. I just wish…_

_"What do you wish, Dean?" Jim asks softly._

_I jerk slightly, not realizing I'd said that out loud. "Nothing."_

_"No, it's okay," Jim encourages. "You can tell me."_

_"I wish…" I whisper, afraid to speak the words out loud, afraid of their implication. "I wish that Dad saw me when he looked at me."_

_Jim lifts a hand as if he means to rest it on me, but changes his mind. I'm relieved. I don't want his comfort at the moment._

_"He sees you, Dean."_

_"Yeah, sure. Okay."_

_"Your Dad loves you more than you'll ever know," Jim says softly. "More than anything."_

_I nod, finding it difficult to swallow. I want to talk about something else. I want to open that tackle box. I want to go to bed. I want…_

_"How about we work on Sam's dreams a bit?"_

_I nod, curious what we could do here in the moonlight at midnight to help my brother sleep. A ritual? A spell? _

_Jim opens the tackle box and pulls out a slim, green stick, still damp from cutting, strips of leather, fishing line, and three green beads. _

_I lift my eyebrow. "Dude… arts and crafts?"_

_Jim chuckles slightly. "Protection. You said you remembered your dream catcher—the one that's in the Impala," he reminds me. _

_"Yeah…"_

_"I made that for you," Jim says._

_Huh…_

_He made a dream catcher for me, to help me with the bad dreams. Thinking back, the only time I can remember _not_ having nightmares is when I am in the Impala._

_"Yeah, okay," I nod, eager to have something to do that's not diving head first into my psyche. "Let's get started."_

_With Jim quietly directing the motion of my hands, I bend the green twig into a circle, slowly wrapping the loop in the soft, pale leather. As I work, I think about my brother. I think about my father. I stop just short of Mom. Our family is what it is. And keeping this family together will keep the nightmares away._

_I find myself murmuring this promise as I twist the fishing line into the intricate net that will catch Sam's nightmares. _

* * *

For a moment, he had no idea what to do.

Staring at the back of Camilla Cooper, her dark blue burial dress slit up the spine, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands tucked under herself, Sam felt his world shift.

"This isn't right," he said out loud, unsure why but needing for a moment to connect with reality. _Of course it's not right, you idiot_, he chided himself.

Had she been _alive_ when she was buried? Had she tried to get out, only to give up and roll over?

"What the hell…" he shook his head, hesitating before reaching for the body, grasping it with the fingers of his wounded hand, and rolling Camilla to her side in the silky confines of the coffin. His breath stalled in his chest—not even reaching the base of this throat.

Camilla's eyes were open.

"Jesus!" Sam gasped, pulling back his shaking hand as if the body had burned him. Camilla's body dropped back into the hollow of the coffin where it had been resting with a dull _thunk_.

"What the _hell_?!" Sam wiped his hand nervously on his pants, smearing blood on top of the dirt that was already present. Closing the coffin lid, Sam clambered out of the messy hole, stumbling away from the open grave with a shudder.

He was cold. Bone-cold.

_Her eyes were open_, Sam shook his head, automatically looking up and around for his brother. He suddenly, desperately wanted Dean's _you gotta be kidding me_ to precede an entirely inappropriate comment. The quiet chirping of the night mocked him.

_What the _hell_ would have made her open her eyes and roll over…_after_ she was buried?!_

A sharp stab of pain in his palm grabbed his attention and he looked down. His wound had torn open and was bleeding freely, filling the creases and life-lines on his palm, spilling between his fingers, dripping to the ground. Pulling his lips up in disgust, Sam made a fist, feeling the blood squish between his fingers.

He couldn't leave her like that. But he wasn't burning her, either. Struggling with the now-slick shovel handle, Sam began the laborious effort of filling in the grave, hissing through clenched teeth at the pain in his hand.

"Didn't want to wake you… you stay there, _I'll_ go dig up the body… by myself," he grumbled, panting as he worked. "Damn you and your stubborn… idiot… hero... complex," he growled, hefting dirt into the hole. "This is all your fault."

He knew Dean would have drive to the cemetery half-conscious rather than let Sam go alone, but for a brief moment, it felt good to blame his brother for his exhaustion, his pain, his ruined clothes.

_Half-conscious…_

The image of Dean, limp, bloody, in the remnants of the burning house shot through him like a stab in the gut. What was he going to do if Dean didn't get his hearing back? He _needed_ his brother, needed him whole and annoying and present. He needed him to watch his back, keep him sharp. He needed Dean to be there when he fought free of his tangled dreams and visions into the clear space of a reality where nothing made sense.

Panting, Sam leaned on his shovel.

"Dean's gonna be fine," he muttered to himself, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand, smearing more dirt across his face. "He's gonna be fine."

"Sam?"

Sam spun at the sound of his name, nearly toppling back into the partially dug-up grave. The beam of a flashlight caught him across the eyes, making him squint and look away as he raised a hand to cut the glare.

"Mike?"

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Mike exclaimed, moving closer.

Scrambling, Sam sputtered, "I, uh, could ask you the same thing."

Mike stopped a few feet short of Sam, the beam still focused on Sam's face, his body a dark silhouette against the night.

"_I'm_ here with George," Mike said, indignation plain in his voice. "Visiting his wife's grave, man."

"George is here?" Sam squeaked. "_Now?_"

"He's at the truck," the shadowed image of Mike jerked as he angled his head back. "I told him to wait a minute…'cause I thought I…dude, are you… did you dig up Camilla's _grave_?"

Mike launched forward until Sam was able to see his dark features in the backwash of the flashlight. His eyes were wide, his mouth set in a grim line of disbelief.

"I can explain," Sam started, belatedly pushing the shovel behind his back.

Mike bounced the beam of light from the rucked up grave dirt to Sam's face. "Oh yeah?"

"Well, okay, maybe I can't, but I swear it's not what you think."

"You better hope to hell _not_, man, because I'm _this close_ to calling the cops." Mike held his index finger and thumb up together.

Sam rolled his lips in, tasting the tang of the salt sweat coating his skin. "Listen," he held out a placating hand, oblivious of the blood dripping from his fingertips. He jumped slightly when Mike's hand flashed through the beam of light to catch his wrist, just above the wound.

"What the hell'd you do to yourself?"

Sam looked down at the contrast of skin color and blood. "Oh… I, uh, tore my stitches."

Mike tipped the beam up so that Sam had to squint against the light once again. "You're telling me that getting into that grave was so damn important you did it with a bloody hand?"

Sam swallowed. "Yes?"

Mike dropped Sam's wrist, took one step back, and shone the light on the ground. "Start talkin'."

"You're not going to believe me."

Mike crossed his arms, the beam of light shooting off into the nothing that he'd materialized from. "Try me."

Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Time was ticking like an audible clock in the back of his mind. Time away from Dean. If Dean woke up too long before he got back…

"Y'know how I said to George that, uh, the thing with his wife was what my brother and I did?"

"Come again?" Mike, once again shadowed by night, tipped his head to the side.

"Yeah, that didn't make much sense. Okay," Sam stabbed the shovel head into the earth. "George's wife is haunting him. The best way to get rid of a ghost is to salt and burn the bones."

Mike was silent. Sam heard the night sounds rush in to fill the space the absence of words left behind. He waited, sweat trickling down his back to gather at the base of his spine.

"So… what you're saying is… not only do you believe George," Mike's deep voice broke the quiet with disbelief. "But you decided to help him out by… torching his wife's body?"

"Well," Sam shrugged a bit helplessly. "I tried, but… something's hinky about this case."

"Define… hinky."

"The body—Camilla—is on her stomach, and her eyes were open."

"_What_?!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," Sam nodded, steamrolling over Mike's slow saturation of the truth. "See, I think there's more going on here than a simple haunting… Something or someone tried to kill George and Wren, and—"

"Ease up there, cowboy," Mike waved the flashlight in the air. "A… _simple_ haunting?"

Sam sighed. His hand was throbbing and his body was starting to join in. "Is there any way we can finish this conversation later? I left Dean back at the hotel and when he finds out I'm out here—"

"At least one of you has sense."

"—without him he's gonna be mad enough to spit nails and kick my ass. In that order."

"Okay, scratch that."

"Seriously, man, I'm beat, and my hand is killing me," Sam almost whimpered. "Let me just finish filling the grave and I promise I'll explain everything."

Mike held still for a moment, then finally sighed, shaking his head. "I gotta be outta my mind," he muttered. "Hand me that shovel."

Sam traded Mike the shovel for the flashlight, gratefully standing at the graveside while Mike helped him complete the task he'd started.

"I'm surprised George and Wren are still waiting for you," Sam commented as Mike patted the small mound of earth with the back of the shovel.

"Not Wren. Just George. And he's a good ol' guy. He trusts me."

"Not Wren?" Sam took the shovel back, slinging it over his shoulder like a rifle and resting his uninjured hand in the handle. "He left her behind?"

Mike nodded. "That's why he's out here so late. Said he wanted to wait until she was asleep so that he could," he tossed a look over his shoulder as they started for the truck, "talk to Camilla alone."

"Huh."

Mike looked over at him. "What?"

"Just surprised he'd leave her alone, is all. After how scared she was in the ER."

Mike shrugged. "Their business, not mine," he said.

"You drive him everywhere?"

"Nah." Mike shook his head. "He has his own wheels. He's just been shook up a bit… I thought I'd, y'know, look after him a bit."

"Nice of you," Sam commented.

"Yeah, well, I'm a nice guy. Who should still call the cops on your ass."

"But you won't?" Sam asked, pulling his bloody hand close to his grimy shirt. The throb had increased and he could feel it dig into his bones, travel up his arm, and sink into the base of his teeth.

Mike sighed. "I won't. _If_ you explain to George why he can't go talk to Camilla right now," he continued as the truck came into view.

Sam smiled tightly. "Swell."

"Mike?" George's confused voice met them from the dark and Sam looked over to see Mike's F-150 parked under a street light.

The dusty yellow cone of light drew moths and motes and turned the blue of Mike's truck a teal green. Sam braced himself as George stepped from the truck to balance on the running board.

"That Sam with you?"

"Hey, George," Sam called wearily.

"What are you doing out here?" George stepped down and hurried over. Sam saw that the bruises on his face looked almost black in the surreal light. "And what the hell happened to your hand?"

Sam licked his dry lips. "It's a long story."

"C'mere," Mike ordered, heading to the back of his truck bed. "Both of you."

Sam sighed, wanting to bow his shoulders, not looking forward to the pending conversation. Their lives were unbelievable enough in the living of them; explaining reality in a world that twists truth was not easy. Shuffling to the now-open tailgate of the truck, Sam tried to think about how Dean would handle this situation.

With a quick hop, Mike was up inside the truck bed and pulling a silver-studded toolbox toward them. Sam realized that George was staring at his mud and blood-covered shovel with trepidation.

"Sit up here," Mike said to Sam, indicating the edge of the tailgate with his head.

"What are you going to do?" Sam asked warily.

Mike lifted an eyebrow and Sam watched his full lips quirk in brief amusement. "It's not what you think," he teased.

"Good, 'cause—"

"What are you doing with that shovel, Son?" George broke in.

"Give him a second, George," Mike said, indicating once more to the tailgate. "He's gonna explain everything. I just need to take a look at that hand before it gets much worse."

Sam used his good hand to leverage himself up on the tailgate, his added weight sagging the truck slightly, the toes of his muddy boots scuffing along the ground as he swung his feet.

"You got a med kit in there?"

"Yup," Mike answered, flipping the toolbox open.

Sam peered inside, his eyes going wide. It was more than a med kit. It was an entire ER supply closet, complete with syringes and bottles of medicine Sam couldn't begin to pronounce.

"Holy shit."

What they wouldn't give for a set-up like that in the back of the Impala. The hurried escapes from hospitals, the bathroom sutures, praying that all the blood on the outside wasn't more than what was left on the inside. Half of what Sam was seeing in Mike's toolbox would be enough to keep them on the road for months.

"I moonlight as a Justin Healer," Mike said, pulling out soft rags and antiseptic and snapping the edge of latex gloves.

"A what now?" Sam drew his eyebrows together.

"Mike was a rodeo cowboy," George bragged. "Rode bareback. Best in the state. Went to the finals."

Mike grunted. "Finals in more ways than one," he grumbled, gently cleaning the dirt and blood away from Sam's torn skin.

Sam hissed and tried to hold still, feeling his mouth go wet as the cleanser filled the punctured hole at the base of his palm. "P-put you out of the… game, did it?" He managed through clenched teeth.

"Broke my left leg in four places," Mike said, reaching into the box for a needle and clear bottle of liquid. "Was in traction for eight months and spent almost a year learning how to walk again."

"Ouch," Sam muttered. "Uh, what's that?"

"Lidocaine," Mike said. "Stitching this isn't gonna be easy."

"You have to stitch it?" Sam winced as Mike inserted the small-gauge needle near the wound and injected the numbing agent.

"You want a hole in your hand?"

"Not especially," Sam grumbled.

He darted his eyes over to George who was standing with his hands in his back pockets, shifting his gaze from Mike's task to the direction of Camilla's grave. Sam opened his mouth to attempt to reassure George that he was going to fix this, when he felt a cold swab on his upper arm. Looking over in confusion, he had two seconds to register another needle before Mike jabbed it into his arm.

"Ow! Hey! What the hell, man?"

"Antibiotics," Mike capped the needle, twisting it from the syringe and tossing it into a small, mobile sharps container. "Usually I'd give it to you through a saline IV port, but well, we can't have everything."

"What's this Justin Healer thing you do?" Sam asked, gripping his wrist to hold his hand steady and relishing the warm numbness that spread slowly through his aching fingers.

"I put broken cowboys back together," Mike said, getting the suture's ready. "They bust themselves up, I pick up the pieces."

"Huh," Sam muttered, watching him. "We could use a… Winchester healer," he said, laughing a bit at himself.

Mike raised an eyebrow, then gripped Sam's hand. "Start talking, Winchester."

Sam chewed his bottom lip a moment, then looked over at George. _This is not going to be easy._ "George," Sam started. "My brother and I… we have an unusual job."

George pulled his wiry gray eyebrows together, holding Sam's eyes relentlessly. Sam ached at the innocence he saw there.

"We take care of the bad stuff out there that no one else believes in."

"Bad stuff?"

"Ghosts. Demons. Werewolves, vampires…"

George looked at Mike, who didn't slow in his sewing, then back at Sam. "You're serious?"

"Wish to hell I wasn't, but, uh… yeah. We grew up doing this. Our father taught us."

George looked back toward Camilla's grave. "What's this got to do with me?"

Sam took a breath. "You said that your wife was haunting you."

"Yeah, but," George's face drew together, lines growing deeper before Sam's eyes. "Camilla's ghost isn't bad. She's… she's my girl."

Sam nodded. "I know, that, George, but a restless spirit is a restless spirit, and—"

"She's trying to tell me something, that's all. I just haven't figured it out yet. That's why I'm going to talk to her tonight."

"I wouldn't do that, George," Sam said, halting George's movement.

"Why?" George's innocence vanished with the hardness of that word. Sam shivered slightly, knowing that he'd messed with something precious.

"When you have a restless spirit," Sam tried to explain. "The best, most efficient way to, uh, get rid of them is to… to salt and burn the bones."

"Come again?" George tipped his head to the side, cupping a hand around the edge of his ear.

"Salt purifies the spirit and the fire releases it from this… plane of existence."

"Are you telling me you… you burned my Camilla?" George stepped forward and Sam felt his entire body clench up in reaction. The look in George's eyes caused Sam's skin to shiver, his being wary, prepared for attack.

_Okay, Dean, I'm sorry I left you behind._

"No! No, George, I didn't. I swear!" Sam felt his thigh muscles bunch as he worked to not scoot away from the angry older man. "But… I did dig her up for that reason. I was… I wanted to help you."

"You should have talked to me first," George spat and Sam heard his knuckles crack as he curled his fingers into fists. "Don't matter how long you been doing this… this _job_ of yours… you're always dealing with people, Son, and people _matter_. My Camilla mattered."

Sam swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I know," he said roughly. "And I'm sorry."

George's eyes shone with angry, unshed tears, and after a minute of staring fire into Sam, he turned away, rubbing his mouth.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked softly, helplessly.

Sam sighed. "I need to get back to my brother," he said. "This… there's something not quite right here, and I, uh… I need him."

"He better at this than you?" George asked, glancing back at Sam over his shoulder.

Sam huffed out a laugh. "Depends on who you ask," he mumbled. "But Dean's pretty damn good at everything he does, I can tell you that."

"You gonna tell him the rest?" Mike asked softly, finishing up the wrappings on Sam's hand.

Sam looked down, flexing his numb fingers. Mike had wrapped it from the base of his fingers to his wrist, like a boxer ready to pull on gloves.

"George," Sam asked, still looking at his hand. "Do you know anyone who might want to, uh… to hurt you or maybe Wren?"

George blinked, surprise showing clear in his eyes. "Hurt us?"

"Camilla's body… well, I don't want to worry you, but… it wasn't in the right… position for a spirit at peace."

George licked his lips. Sam desperately wanted his brother here for this. He could hear Dean's voice in his head. _George, hate to tell you this, man, but your wife rolled over in her grave and we don't have a clue why… but I promise you we'll figure it out._ Sam had always admired the fierceness in Dean's eyes when he said the word 'promise.' Not one person he said it to could doubt his sincerity.

"What do you mean, right position?"

"She was on her stomach, and, uh… her eyes were open," Sam said through dry lips.

George paled, taking a staggered step back. In an instant, Mike had hopped from the tailgate of the truck and was standing next to his friend, hand on George's elbow.

"Was she… alive?" George rasped.

Sam was tempted to automatically shake his head, his desire to reassure the old man heavy in his heart. But he didn't _know_ anything… not yet. "That's what I'm going to find out, George. My brother and me, okay? We're gonna figure this out."

"You… you think maybe… maybe someone hurt her? Is trying to hurt Wren?"

"Or you," Mike interjected.

"But… we haven't… we never hurt anyone!"

"We'll figure it out," Sam slid from the tailgate. "We gotta get back to the hotel. To Dean."

"You can't drive with that hand," Mike frowned at Sam, looking menacing in the yellow light. Sam felt a chill as he was reminded of Gordon Walker's snarl as he held his bleeding arm over Lenore's fangs.

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna," Sam replied, hefting the shovel in his good hand.

"Climb in the truck," Mike insisted. "We'll come back for your car tomorrow."

"I'm not leaving her here," Sam shook his head. _Dean would kill me._

"Her?"

"Our car," Sam clarified. "I'll meet you back at the hotel." He turned and started across the lot toward the Impala.

"Sam!" Mike called after him.

"I'll see you back there," he replied without turning around.

He heard their voices continue to argue as he moved further away, but he couldn't make out their words. As he reached the dark shape of the Impala hiding in the night, he heard the low rumble of the diesel engine. Dropping the shovel in the trunk, Sam opened the driver's door and slid gratefully behind the wheel.

The car smelled like his brother. Leather and sweat and a faint lingering smell of Old Spice. Dad has always worn that, and Dean picked up on it before he was even in high school. Only at certain times, though, Sam thought as he started up the car. Only when he wanted to leave behind a memory.

The radio came on with the car and Sam punched at the buttons, annoyed as each station brought him another commercial or DJ's voice. He wanted to drown for a moment. He was tired. Tired of moving and struggling and fighting. Tired of waiting to see what he was going to become. Tired of trying to fight the goddamned good fight.

_What good was fighting when we just keep getting beat down? When good people get hurt?_

Dave Grohl's voice punched through the air that wrapped around Sam and he tightened his one-handed grip on the steering wheel, taking a corner too fast.

_"…I'm the voice inside your head you refuse to hear. I'm the face that you have to face, mirrored in your stare. I'm what's left, I'm what's right. I'm the enemy. I'm the hand that will take you down, bring you to your knees…"_

The image of Dean's eyes, wide and scared, pain rolling in like the tide combated with the reflection of George's shocked expression, his panic at the thought of his wife having suffered. Sam clenched his jaw.

He wanted to get away, just leave. He wanted to fight them all. He wanted to find a way to win and he wanted to hide forever. His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he worked to regain control of his emotions before they won and spilled in hot, embarrassing tears down his dirt-streaked face.

The hotel loomed close and Sam whipped into the parking lot, an odd panic at having been away from Dean for so long gripping him at the throat and tightening its hold. He pulled past Mike's truck, parked in the front of the hotel, and found a space behind the building where they could see the car from their room window.

On autopilot, Sam grabbed the bag of weapons from where he'd stashed it in the back seat and locked the doors, his long legs eating up the blacktop as he headed for the side door. He saw Mike and George stepping on to the elevator, and without a word, yanked open the door to the stairwell and started taking them two at a time, thoughts pounding like relentless hammers in time with his steps.

_Dad's dead because of me… what could you possibly say to make that all right?_

Second floor… heart pounding. How long had he been gone?

_When you were trapping that demon, you weren't…I mean, it was all a trick, right? You never considered actually making that deal, right?_

…_told me that I had to take care of you… watch out for you… told me I might have to kill you, Sammy…_

Fourth floor… hate this, don't want any more.

_The more people I save, the more I can change._

_It's so damn hard to do this…what we do…all alone, you know? There's so much evil out in the world, Dean, I feel like I could drown in it. And when I think about my destiny, when I think about how I could end up..._

Almost there. What if Dean never gets his hearing back? How would they fight? How would they win? How would he make it without his brother always having his back?

_Sam, when Dad told me that I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn't save you. Now, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you…_

He reached the landing for their floor just as George was inserting the key into his room. Mike stood behind George and looked up with surprise as Sam emerged, red faced and sweating into the hallway. Barely passing them a glance, Sam moved down the hall, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when he realized the door to their room was standing open.

"What the hell—"

He started to reach into the weapons bag for his gun when his arms were suddenly full of a frightened, weeping Wren, trying desperately to escape the room. Sam felt himself start to click, as if his mind was immediately taking inventory as his body worked to hold on to Wren and not send them both to the ground.

Door open, salt scattered, curtains torn down, room empty.

"Where's Dean?" Sam asked Wren, gripping her arms tightly, turning her face toward him, her sightless eyes brimming with frightened tears.

"He's in the bathroom," she cried. "I'm s-sorry… I heard him yelling and I was t-trying to help!"

"Wren?" George's voice came from Sam's left, a Doppler of worry. "What are you… how did you get—"

"Hold her," Sam commanded. "And stay right here," he turned pointing a finger at George, his eyes hard. "Do _not _leave."

George wrapped Wren in his arms, nodding, his eyes wide and scared. Sam turned toward the room, stepping over the salt in a habit of protection and dropping the weapons bag on Dean's bed.

"Dean!"

"I'm with you, man," Mike said quietly from behind him.

Sam nodded without looking. "DEAN!"

He didn't think about the fact that his brother wouldn't be able to hear him, to call back any sort of reassurance. He simply acted. He reached the bathroom and felt his heart stop when he saw Dean, his damp clothes clinging to the curves of muscles taut across his back, his fingers laced through his hair, his face pressed against the tile floor.

Sam crouched next to him, carefully resting a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean?" he said softly. "You okay, man?" He felt Dean try to flinch away, but limply as if he simply didn't have the energy to fight anymore.

Mike stepped around them and turned off the water from the shower, flicking on the switch for the fan to pull the steam from the cloistered room.

"Tell me that's you, Sam," Dean's voice was a whisper.

"I'm here," Sam tucked another hand around Dean's bicep, carefully easing Dean up. "Easy, easy, that's it, go slow."

Dean's face was red, sweat sluicing the bruises and staggering through the stubble along his cheeks. His lashes met in points, giving him an almost endearing, youthful expression to battle his confused, pain-filled eyes. The green was almost non-existent with the size of his pupils.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam soothed.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Dean snapped, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "Leaving me like that."

Sam sighed, bracing himself. Mike stepped back out of the small room, waiting in the doorway. Dean opened his eyes, his focus on Sam's mouth.

"I'm sorry, man, I—"

"Don't you say it, Sam," Dean growled, his voice worn as if he'd been screaming. "Don't you fuckin' say you were trying to protect me."

Sam closed his mouth.

"Help me up," Dean ordered.

"Dean—" Sam started to shake his head, but one look stilled him. Dean's eyes were coming back to him, the pain leeching away as his pupils narrowed, determination and anger replacing confusion. "Fine."

Sam tucked his wounded hand under Dean's other arm and slowly lifted his brother to his feet. Dean leaned forward, his shoulder against Sam's chest, as he caught his breath and his balance.

"Where is she?" Dean asked.

Without thinking, Sam jerked back, looking at Dean's face. "You mean Wren?"

Dean wavered at the loss of his brace and Mike's arm jutted out, catching him. Dean looked down at the dark hand on his sleeve, then up at the worried face.

"Denzel? What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Mike looked at Sam, but Sam ignored him, shaking Dean slightly and bringing his attention back. Speaking slowly, conscious of how his mouth formed the words, Sam asked, "Wren was here with you?"

Dean frowned, and Sam could see him filling in the blanks of what he couldn't understand from reading Sam's lips. "She got in somehow, went all Helen Keller on my face, and then…" Dean shrugged. "You walked in."

"All right, c'mon," Sam kept a hand on Dean's arm and turned them from the bathroom to the bedroom. Dean followed obediently, his body sluggish and heavy against Sam's. "George?" Sam called. "You and Wren come in. And close the door."

Dean sat on his bed, resting an elbow on the weapons bag, and rubbed at his glistening hair. Sam watched him scan the people in the room, his eyes shadowed and unreadable, his entire body tense and wary. Glancing at the clock, Sam sighed. It was past midnight.

He turned to the three people in the room. "Wren," he said, watching her body jerk in reaction. George had her tucked up against him protectively. "I need to know how you got into this room."

"She has a key," George answered.

"What?!" Sam exclaimed.

"When we checked in, I thought it might be best to be able to have access to each other," George offered, "so we got extra keys. I have one for our room to give to you."

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" Sam demanded.

George shrugged innocently. "It slipped my mind."

"I need that key, George," Sam held out his hand. "I'm sorry, but… we can't have you coming in… y'know, whenever you want."

Wren held the key out and Sam took it from her.

"What's with the salt?" Mike asked.

"Protection," Sam answered, sitting down on the edge of the spare bed. Dean's tension was beginning to wear on him, radiating from his brother as he worked to follow the conversation that had to be like watching the world on mute. "Against demons and… stuff."

"Demons?" Wren squeaked.

"I'll explain later, honey," George assured her.

"An extra key doesn't explain how she got down here," Dean said, a little too loudly. Sam looked over, surprised that he'd caught the exchange. "How'd she know where we were?"

"Dean's right," Sam looked back at George.

"George said you were in 733," Wren answered, sniffing. Remnants of tears clung to her thick lashes and seemed to illuminate her blank eyes. "I knew we were in 729, and I just… felt the numbers on the doors until I found you."

"Why, though?" Sam pressed. He found himself calming as she spoke. Her voice had been a balm in the ER, when not shot through with terror. His muscles were beginning to ease in their tension and in his periphery, he saw Mike lean against the wall next to the bathroom, George sink into a chair.

Wren stayed standing, her eyes looking over Sam's head, her voice directed at him.

"I heard him," she said softly. "He was calling for you, and he sounded so… lost. I knew George was gone, and if he sounded like that, I knew you had to be gone, too. I guess I just thought… I didn't want him to be alone. I don't like to be alone," she wrapped her arms around herself, and Sam felt cold. "I wanted… I wanted to help him. I didn't mean to scare him."

"Sam?" Dean said.

Sam watched Wren, wanting inexplicably to smooth the dried tear streaks from her porcelain-like skin. Wanting to wrap her up as George had done. Wanting to save her.

"Sam!" Dean shoved at his knee. Sam blinked and looked over. "What is she saying?"

Sam blinked again, feeling oddly as if he were waking from a dream. "It's okay, Dean," he muttered.

"What?" Dean yelled, his brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. "Look at me. Sam! Look at me."

Sam obeyed, turning to face his brother.

"What the hell is going on, here, man? This…" Dean shot a look at the three guests in the room. "This whole situation is seriously FUBAR'd, Sam."

Sam shook his head, unable to argue. He looked back at Wren and George. "You're right," he sighed.

"Sam!" Dean lightly slapped his leg. "Don't turn away."

Sam looked right at Dean. Right into his eyes. Focusing. "You are right, Dean."

"Damn right, I'm right," Dean muttered.

Sam held up a finger to Dean, who nodded after a moment's hesitation. He turned to the other three. "George, take Wren back and get some sleep. We'll find you in the morning and figure this out, okay?"

George nodded, standing up and wrapping an arm around Wren.

"I'm really sorry, Sam," Wren said softly. "I won't scare him like that again."

"It's okay," Sam replied, gentling his voice. He reached out and brushed her bare arm with the tips of his fingers. "Thank you for caring enough to check on him."

"He tried to save me," Wren said. "And… well, you guys saved George. I don't have enough left in my life to lose anything else."

Sam curled his wounded hand into a fist, feeling the pins-and-needles tingle of sensation returning. "I know what you mean."

"What about me?" Mike pushed away from the wall.

"Go home," Sam said.

"I'm not leaving this alone," Mike declared.

"Yeah, I kinda figured," Sam sighed, "but there's nothing you can do tonight. Go home. We'll call you tomorrow."

"You don't," Mike pointed a finger at him, "and I'm coming after you."

Sam nodded. Mike looked at Dean. "Be good, you stubborn son of a bitch," he said, almost as if he enjoyed the fact that Dean couldn't hear him.

"See ya, Denzel," Dean returned, eyebrow arched in a slight smirk as if he had.

Sam followed them and closed the door at their backs, this time pulling the chain lock. He used the inside of his foot to return the salt line back to its rightful place.

"What happened to your hand?" Dean asked.

Sam rested his forehead against the door. He wanted to sink to the floor, curl up, and stay there for the rest of the night.

"I tore it open digging up Camilla's body all by myself because you're hurt and I wanted to protect you like you always protect me but I'm in over my head because she was rolled over with her eyes open and I don't know why and I hate to say it but I need you and I'm scared to death that I'm gonna get you hurt worse and won't be able to save you like you've promised to save me." Sam murmured the words in a quick, quiet rush, facing the door, his back to Dean, his eyes closed.

"Sam?" Dean persisted when Sam didn't move.

Turning to face Dean, he said slowly, "I hurt it digging up the grave."

Dean narrowed his eyes on Sam's mouth. It was almost disconcerting, his brother watching him so closely. Dean pushed himself to his feet, and Sam wanted to mirror his wince, knowing his muscles had to be protesting. He moved toward Sam as if he were ninety, not twenty-eight. His brother's body had seen a lot of mileage in his years.

"And…" Dean prompted.

"Mike fixed it for me."

Dean nodded, his eyes seeming to drink in Sam's face, thirsty for information, for control, for a way to stay in the game. "I'm guessing things didn't go well at the cemetery."

"FUBAR doesn't begin to cover it," Sam sighed, leaning his head against the door. He rolled his neck, looking over at his bag of clothes and laptop. "I need to do some research into the Coopers. Figure out who might—"

"Hey!" Dean snapped, grabbing at the front of Sam's shirt. "Don't look away."

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam pushed his brother's hand away. Exhaustion had worn his patience to a nub, and his brother was beginning to erase even that. "Quit pulling on me!"

"You gotta look at me," Dean snapped.

"I forget, okay?!" Sam yelled back, pressing his face forward. "I freakin' forget that you're not—"

Sam stopped himself. He wanted to push Dean away. Wanted his brother to not need him so much. Wanted to unload onto Dean the fucked up facts of this hunt and have Dean tell him they'd figure it out. Wanted to be the little brother.

"It's just… this is hard, Dean."

"You think this is easy for me, man?" Dean yelled, and Sam knew that this time it was purposeful, not a matter of being unaware. The tendons in Dean's neck were taut and he was curling and uncurling his fists at his sides. If his body hadn't been so battered, Sam knew he'd be pacing.

"No," Sam shook his head. "I know it's not."

"I'm…" Dean swallowed, glancing away, then back again, and Sam felt his heart curl tight against his ribs at the lost expression bottoming out his brother's eyes. "I'm barely hanging on here, man. It's… too quiet."

Sam nodded. Dean reached up and ran a hand over his mouth, pulling at his lips.

"And then," Dean continued, his voice breaking. "Then it's not, and I hear… shit, I hear _everything_ and I can't… I can't hold it all."

"It'll get better," Sam whispered. "It has to get better."

"I know that doctor lady said that it was temporary," Dean said, his eyes once again on Sam's face, "but we both know that… that our lives are destined to be screwed up."

Sam nodded, swallowing tears that screamed to be released. _It's just not fair._

"So… I need you, Sammy." Dean confessed, his body visibly shaking with the confession. "I need you to… not leave me behind."

Sam dropped his chin, covering his face for a moment. "God, Dean," he muttered into his hands, then remembered and pulled his face up, meeting Dean's anxious eyes. "What if… what if you get hurt worse?"

Dean shrugged. "We could always get hurt."

"What if…" Sam licked his lips. "What if you can't…"

"Save you?" Dean whispered. "That's what you're scared about isn't it, that I can't save you like this?"

Sam nodded, clenching his jaw. He would _not_ let the tears win.

"Aw, dammit, Sam," Dean shook his head, reaching for Sam's shirt and curling his fingers loosely in the dirty folds. "Don't you think I think about that? Every damn day. Every day since…"

Dean looked down. Sam could see the dried blood on his brother's ears, the blood in his sweat-soaked, matted hair. They were a collective mess, the two of them.

"I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you," Dean said to the floor, his hands still fisted in Sam's shirt. "But you gotta at least give me the chance to save you."

Sam reached up and rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, drawing his brother's eyes. When Dean was looking at him, he said very clearly, "Dean… you stink."

Dean paused for a heartbeat, and then as Sam hoped, the laughter burbled out of him in a pop of surprise and relief. "You want first crack at the shower?"

"It's too freakin' late to shower," Sam sighed, glad the sound of Dean's laughter had released the weight from the room.

He stepped away from Dean, moving to the table and picked up the bottle of pills. He held them up to his brother. Dean shook his head. "C'mon, Dean," Sam cajoled.

"No, Sam."

Dean's voice left no room for argument, and Sam was too trashed to even attempt it. He tossed the bottle of eardrops to his brother, stripped to his boxers, pulled back the sheets, and flopped face-first into the bed, his dirt-streaked, weary body crying with relief.

He heard his brother's clothes hit the floor, sensed Dean turning off the light in the corner of the room, heard Dean hiss and curse at the drops in his ears, then waited for the sound that he knew would lull him to sleep.

The steady rhythm of Dean's heavy, constant breathing.

* * *

_Minnesota, 1994_

_"He's not coming back this time."_

_"He always comes back, Sam."_

_"It's been two weeks. Maybe he's dead."_

_"He's _not_ dead."_

_"You don't know that."_

_"Yes. I do."_

_"What are you and Jim working on every night?"_

_"None of your business."_

_"I wanna work on something."_

_"Work on keeping your wrist straight in the follow through."_

_"I hate throwing knives."_

_"No, you don't."_

_"You don't know what I hate. I can hate this."_

_"You're too good at it to hate it."_

_"You… you think I'm good at this?"_

_"Hell, yeah, Sam, why do you think I make you work on it all the time?"_

_"I thought it was 'cause… Dad told you to."_

_"You think I do everything Dad says?"_

_"Well… yeah."_

_"Here, Sam. Try this one."_

_"That's your knife, Dean."_

_"I know what the hell it is; I gave it to you, didn't I?"_

_"All right, fine, but if I lose it…"_

_"You won't lose it."_

_"Oh, man! Oh, my God, Dean, did you see that? I totally nailed the center!"_

_"Told you."_

_"Yes! Thanks, Dean."_

_"Keep this up, Sammy, and you'll be better than Dad and me."_

_"I won't be better than you."_

_"Yeah? How do you know that?"_

_"'Cause you're the best, Dean."_

* * *

He heard voices in his dreams.

They were memories of voices, snatches of conversations, the sound of his father singing. He liked that one best. His father had had a great, gravely voice. The kind that could get under the note and draw out the emotion from the word. It was one of the only times he ever really saw his father show emotion while he was growing up.

He heard Sam. He missed Sam's voice. He let the drowsiness of the dream roll over him more just so that he could listen longer. There were so many thoughts inside of Sam's voice that he never really spoke. But Dean heard them.

The light from the morning sun streaming in through the uncovered window beat a harsh tattoo against his closed eyes and the first thing he was aware of upon waking was the stench wafting off of him. His mouth felt furry and full of glue. He pried his teeth apart, feeling his tongue grip the roof of his mouth.

He rolled from his back to his side and once again felt the sensation of liquid in his ears, shifting the world around him until he was forced to drop a foot from the bed to balance himself. He opened his mouth and saw Sam, asleep, sprawled on the opposite bed, sheets and blankets twisted around his waist, one leg out and his mouth gaping open.

Dean let his mouth relax into an indulgent smile. Sam even _slept _big. Biting back a groan that could have potentially jostled his brother awake, Dean grabbed his bag and stumbled to the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind him. The overhead light bumped and sparked, causing him to squint against the brightness of it.

He peered at himself in the mirror, groaning at what he saw. Bruises traversed his forehead and puffed out the soft skin under one eye. Small cuts held together by butterfly bandages graced his cheek and he looked ten years older with the scruff growing slowly into a full-on beard.

"Pretty," he muttered sarcastically, digging into his bag for his shaving supplies. The automatic, repetitive action of shaving seemed to almost put the world into perspective for him.

As he lathered up his cheeks, he let his mind blank, watching only the flash of silver in his straight razor as it scraped the hair from his face. Each swipe left a clear path, each clear path felt like another plank in the broken bridge between where he was and where he had been.

He felt a soft rumble in his chest, relishing the feel of the vibration there as it ambled up through his throat and bounced from his lips. He couldn't tell if he was anywhere close to being on-key, but it felt good, so he went with it.

_"It starts out like a murmur then it grows like thunder until it bursts inside of you…"_

Scrape. Walking to the house. Feeling uncomfortable in his suit. Ready to flash the badge and tell the story. And then what?

"_Try to hold it steady, wait until you're ready any second now will do…"_

Face is smooth; might even pass for human. Bruises are bruises. Flash a smile and give away nothing. Ready for that water to beat down, wash away the aches, and the memories that are not quite there.

_"Throw the door wide open, not a word is spoken. Anything that you want to do…"_

Dean leaned forward, one hand on the wall, his head bowed as the surreal sensation of silent rain slid in slick rivers down his battered body, chasing itself along the dip of his spine and skipping across his gluteus to tangle in the coarse hairs of his legs. He opened his eyes, staring at his feet, making fists with his toes in the basin of the bathtub.

_Talons…_

He blinked as the image shot across his vision. Shaking his head, he tipped his face up into the water, running his fingers through his bloody hair, letting the pink wash away. He tipped his head one way, then the other to keep the water from filling his too-sensitive ears, massaging the blood from his lobes.

_Wings spread, reaching…_

"Shit," he muttered, turning his back to the water and letting it beat against the ever-present knots in his neck. He reached up, rolling his head and kneading the sore muscles there. The water beat against the small of his back, working on the tension, trying to release the ache.

_Gotta get out, get Sam, we're in trouble, we're—_

"Oh, my God," Dean breathed, throwing out a hand to brace himself against the shower wall. The memory of that last thought, that last realization, shot through him like an electrical current.

Shutting off the water, he stepped from the shower the chill of the air crawling in goose bumps across his bare skin, almost forgetting to grab a towel to wrap around him before stepping naked into the outer room. He opened the door of the steamy bathroom, the sunlight from the bare window reflecting off of the beads of water coating his chest and shoulders. He blinked the water from his lashes and looked to the bed for Sam.

Finding it empty, he looked over at the table where his brother sat, still clad only in boxers, dirt ground into his cheeks and arms, staring open-mouthed at his computer monitor. Dean had only to wait a heartbeat before Sam looked up, the expression in his eyes a direct reflection of Dean's own astonishment.

"Dude, I gotta talk to you," they voiced in unison.

* * *

a/n: Thanks for reading! I appreciate your time _so much_, knowing how precious it is to all of us.

Y'know, there are some extremely talented writers in this fandom—I haven't really ventured out into other fandoms too much (unless Jensen Ackles was a part of the show), but there are people I've read here that I would gladly pay to read. However, we're still all writing about the same show, the same characters, and even with the wide canvas of supernatural elements at our fingertips, there are limits to what can be done.

So, it's inevitable that there will be stories with similar ailments or the same bad guys. The fantastic thing is, though, each of these stories is told through different eyes and with different interpretations. There can be three stories where one of the boys is blind or deaf and each one of them will be different. And I find that wonderful.

Write on, my friends. There is a world of fanficers waiting to see _your_ version of our unreality.

Playlist:

_The Pretender_ by the Foo Fighters

_Wearing and Tearing_ by Led Zeppelin


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1

a/n: Recently, I started posting on LiveJournal, which has opened up a whole new world of correspondence and feedback to me. I have come to appreciate the viewpoints and thoughts expressed by those to take the time to investigate my journal. However, I also realized with the posting of Chapter 3 that I may have inadvertently offended some people with my attempts at detailed descriptions and humor in this story.

After some soul-searching and effective conversing with some really good friends (thanks them sincerely), I decided to keep this story as I'd planned, not go back and change anything, and continue with the detailed descriptions.

However, I would just like to say that nothing in this story was written with the intent to offend or insult. My admiration for the differences in our human natures runs deep, and I hope only to show that through the art that is storytelling.

Thanks, Kelly. Wouldn't want to do this without you.

_music plays on…_

* * *

_There's more to the truth than just the facts._

_Author Unknown_

www

Words spoken in unison died between them as the morning sun turned his brother's pale skin translucent.

"Dean?"

Sam was on his feet, his stomach a block of ice, crossing the room just before Dean's knees buckled. He caught Dean's elbow with his good hand and turned him smoothly, sitting him on the edge of the bed as if the moment had been choreographed.

"Whoa…" Dean's voice was weak; his still-wet body shuddered once beneath Sam's fingertips. His hands sought the edge of the bed in a clumsy grip of balance. "Think I, uh… stood up too fast…"

Sam pressed his hand on the back of Dean's clammy neck, easing his brother's head forward, encouraging him with touch to keep it low. Watching the blood drain from Dean's face had momentarily erased his epiphany-like flash of discovery. His brother had had concussions before, but had always been able to ride out the pain, shoving it smoothly behind that indestructible wall he'd built around everything real.

The loss of hearing, though, seemed to add a vulnerability to this injury that even Dean was unsure how to deal with. With a frustrated groan that seeped up from deep in his throat, Dean braced his skull with the heel of his hand, his eyes clenched tight, drawing crevasses at the edges of his lashes.

"Son of a bitch," he uttered on a shaky exhale.

Patting Dean's neck to signal that he was moving away, Sam crossed the room and grabbed the Tylenol and a bottle of water. He returned to Dean, crouching in front of him, and tried to push two pills into his brother's tight fist.

"Dammit, Sam, I said no!" The protest was weedy, ragged with simmering anger.

"You idiot; it's Tylenol," Sam muttered, shoving at Dean's shoulder to get him to open his eyes. "If you'd stop being so damn stubborn you might realize that I listen to you once in awhile."

Dean blinked at the pills in Sam's hand, realization dawning slowly. He sighed with obvious relief, grabbed them and dry-swallowed both before Sam could twist the cap off of the bottle of water.

"Guh, Sam…" Dean wrinkled his nose as he took the bottle and swallowed noisily. "You smell like a grave."

Sam blinked in surprise, taking the bottle back before Dean dropped it. Dean had returned to holding his head and his eyes were directed at the floor in an unfocused gaze that spiked Sam's worry to a cresting point.

"I… I can actually smell… the dirt on you. And… dude, I think I smell… blood."

Sam automatically glanced at his bandaged hand, seeing the pinkish tinge on the white gauze as the sutures seeped through.

"It… it smells like… metal," Dean continued. "And salt. You think I could smell _blood_?"

Dean looked up and Sam was struck by the defenseless expression ghosting his brother's too-big eyes. Sam swallowed. Dean's eyes never revealed this much, were never this exposed. He wasn't sure how to deflect that, how to balance in the wake of raw need from the one person who was supposed to be his anchor. He stood shakily, reaching out for the wall and leaned one shoulder against the edge by the bathroom door, the sunlight streaming through the empty window heating his bare back and tossing his shadow across his brother's pale face.

"What the hell is happening to me?" Dean dropped his head into the palm of his hand and carefully rubbed his fingers through his wet hair, standing the dark strands up in spikes.

"You're just human, man," Sam said softly to his brother's bowed head, aware that Dean took in none of his words, of his worry. "That's all. You're…" _Breakable. Fragile. Real._ "You're gonna be okay."

Dean rubbed his forehead against his palm, addressing the floor. "It's like what Dad said, y'know? About taking one sense away and using the others?"

Sam frowned. "Dad said that?"

"I just always figured… I don't know… I'd _hear_ something more… close my eyes and listen harder, but…" Dean groaned again, tightening his fingers in his hair and curling his stomach muscles until his nose practically touched his kneecaps.

"Dean?" Sam leaned forward, reaching out and gripping Dean's bare shoulder, his fingers sliding over the droplets of water that still clung to his skin. "What is it?"

Dean didn't speak, and Sam felt the muscles beneath his fingers quaking as he rode out the tide of pain, rocking a bit with the beat of his own heart. Sam grimaced helplessly. Dr. Wilde had told him that the pain could be severe, and it seemed that the wave of sound that hit Dean at intermittent intervals might be more than his soldier of a brother could handle.

"Easy," he found himself whispering, not caring that Dean couldn't hear him. Needing to say it. Needing to do _something._ "Just take it easy, Dean."

"Dude," Dean finally gasped, relaxing a fraction. "This sucks on so many different levels."

Sam nodded, feeling weak with relief as the grip of pain seemed to ebb and Dean slumped sideways into his bracing hand.

"You need to shower, man," Dean whispered, letting gravity's power pull him the rest of the way down to the bed, his feet resting on the floor, towel twisted around his waist.

"What about you?" Sam asked, unthinking. The idea of leaving Dean alone had the block of ice that was his stomach twisting until his insides felt like mush.

"Lemme 'lone a minute," Dean slurred, drawing in air shallowly, puffing it out between pursed lips. He rolled carefully to his back and draped his forearm across his eyes. "Jus' wanna… wanna lay here a minute."

Sam frowned, peering closer at his brother's profile. A thin line of crimson spilled slowly from his left ear and trickled down his neck. Sam grabbed a towel from the bathroom rack, dampened it with lukewarm water and returned to his brother's side. Carefully, lower lip trapped between his teeth, Sam started to clear the blood away.

"Dude!" Dean clumsily slapped his hand away, wincing as he tried to peer up at Sam. "What the hell?"

Wordlessly, Sam held up the pinked towel for Dean to see.

"Shit," Dean cursed, reaching for his ear and smearing at the blood.

"Don't do tha—argh! Jeeze, man, just hang on a minute," Sam muttered, reaching for Dean's hand and holding it away as he finished cleaning off the blood. Sighing, he speared the bed with his knee, leaning his weight there and watched as Dean let his body shift sideways into the resulting valley.

For a moment, they looked at each other, thoughts shielded by cautious eyes, need masked by uncertainty, pain buried gut-deep where it couldn't betray them. In the silence between them, Sam heard the tick of the air conditioning unit, doors opening and closing in the hallway, muffled voices calling to each other, his breath expanding the balloon-like elasticity of his lungs, his heart rushing his blood through his veins.

Watching Dean, he knew. He could see. He _felt_ Dean hear…nothing.

"Lie still," Sam enunciated carefully.

"Why?" Dean replied, his green eyes pinned to Sam's mouth, hungry for communication, for a connection to the only normal he'd ever cared about.

"Just lay here and take it easy for a minute," Sam shifted free of the bed, turning away. "I gotta figure out how to finish this hunt without you," he said to himself.

He wasn't clear on what was going on, but they had been through too much—_Dean_ had been through too much—to let the ghost of an old man's wife be the thing that took what little they had left away from them.

"Sam," Dean called after him.

Sam was halted by the ragged edge in Dean's tired voice. He looked over his shoulder, catching his brother's eyes with a question.

"I think… I think the… _ala_ is back," Dean said slowly.

Sam rotated quickly. "_What?_"

"I remembered," Dean shifted clumsily to his elbows, propping himself up, the muscles in his stomach rucked up in ridges above the top of the white towel. "I remembered what I saw in the back of the house—just before everything blew up."

Sam stepped forward, tilting his head to the side in an unconscious gesture of encouragement. "What did you see, Dean?"

"I remembered… birds."

Sam felt his eyebrows meet over the bridge of his nose. "Birds," he repeated.

Dean sat up, the towel gaping open at his knees as he pulled one leg in to tuck it under the other. He leaned forward, elbows on his legs, one hand captured in the other, the pad of his thumb worrying the callous beneath his ring. His eyes were on the bedspread and Sam realized he had no intention of trying to focus on anything Sam had to say. His own words were slamming against each other in their rush to escape.

"I kept remembering birds… and it didn't make sense… I mean… what the hell, right?"

Sam watched a subtle shiver slide through Dean as the cooler air of the room left a path of gooseflesh across his shoulders. He stepped out of the direct path of the sun, letting the balm-like rays hit Dean's skin as his brother continued to talk.

"But just now—well, earlier… in the shower… I kept seeing these flashes… talons, and wings and… it was just like… just like back in that water, back in South Carolina."

Sam sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the shift in weight drawing Dean's attention. He ducked his head, making sure Dean was looking at him when he said, "You lost me."

Dean sighed, rolling his neck in a motion Sam had learned to recognize as an attempt to release tension. Reaching up, Dean pulled at the knotted muscles at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then regarded Sam through his lashes, his chin lowered.

"You remember I told you Dad hunted an _ala_ before?"

Sam nodded. "I don't remember it, though."

Dean looked down. "Yeah, well. There's a reason for that. I made you forget it."

"Huh?" When Dean didn't react to his incredulity, Sam smacked the bed, snapping Dean's eyes up. "What are you talking about?"

"When Dad fought the _ala_ back then, you and I fell in the water. I… I couldn't get to you right away," Dean looked away, an unreadable expression washing over his face and tightening his lips. "And when I did, I saw… I saw the _thing_ reaching for you. The real form of that _ala_."

"A bird?" Sam wondered aloud. "I thought it was a storm demon…"

Dean shrugged as if he'd heard him. "I didn't really bother to look into it after we left Pastor Jim's, but the _ala_ looked like a bird under the water, and it was reaching for you… I grabbed you, but I don't know, man. If Dad hadn't killed it… I don't know."

Sam rubbed his top lip, thinking. It didn't make sense. The _ala_ was a storm demon—true form or not. There hadn't been any reports of storms, no lightening for the _ala _to travel, not even an overly-cloudy day. There was something else going on—something that Dean in his addled state related to that hunt so many years ago. Something that made him think of birds.

He felt Dean quietly berating himself and he rode the tide of his memory, but the comfort he knew how to offer came in a form Dean wouldn't be able to absorb. He watched Dean cup his head in his palms once more, breathing deeply.

"Dean," he said, softly, touching the back of his brother's hand. "Dean, look at me."

Dean lifted his face, his eyes luminous and blood-shot. He waited.

"Listen, I don't know about the _ala_, okay? I don't know, but we'll figure it out…somehow…" Sam promised, making sure to speak clearly.

Dean didn't move. Sam couldn't even tell if he was breathing. His eyes were fastened to Sam's mouth, ready for more.

"I found something out about the house," Sam revealed. "The Cooper's house. George said it had a history, so I thought…"

"What did you find, Sam?" Dean snapped, a shadow of his usual _get to the point already_ self emerging.

"Well, the last two former owners died under mysterious circumstances. One drowned in the kitchen sink, the other fell down the basement stairs… uh… hang on…" Sam jumped up from the bed and went to his laptop, turning the monitor away from the sun's glare so that he could better read the last page he'd pulled up. "Let's see, there was an electrocution and another fire."

"Dude!"

Sam jerked his head over in Dean's direction. "Oh, right sorry. I said electrocution and fire."

"Fire, huh?"

Sam nodded.

"Could all be just unlucky accidents."

"Yeah, but…" Sam crossed the room again to stand nearer to Dean, the sun slicing a warm beam across his face. He marveled at how aware he was of his own lips, the movement, motion, _feel_ of them as they wrapped around thoughts to form words that brought his brother back into the _now_.

"You add Camilla dying of a heart attack when she was perfectly healthy, and the gas leak…"

"Camilla died at the house?" Dean asked, confusion drawing a line between his brows.

"No—church picnic, but it was _her_ house."

Dean nodded sagely, squinting against the glare of the sun as he glanced out through the window. Sam buried an internal smile at the observation that neither of them had bothered to re-hang the curtains.

"Well, this could be something," Dean allowed. "We'll go back to the house, check it out."

Sam looked down, his hands on his hips. He had no intention of taking Dean back to that house. The bed creaked and Sam looked up to see Dean lying back with a soft groan, once again draping his arm across his eyes. His right leg was angled to the side, his knee sticking out of the gap in the towel. Sam saw total exhaustion in the cuts and lines that formed his brother's body.

"You shower," Dean mumbled. "Lemme lay here a minute."

Sam didn't bother to reply. He turned to the opened door of the bathroom, stepping carefully on the damp tiles and lifting his forearm to his nose and inhaling.

"I don't smell _that_ bad," he muttered, dropping his boxers and pulling the shower curtain back. "_Was_ digging a grave for God's—"

He froze with his hand on the shower faucet. He'd forgotten to tell Dean about Camilla.

www

He could count beats of his heart if he pressed his hand to his chest.

He could feel himself breathing. Feel his ribs expand. Feel his blood rush with the intake of oxygen. Feel his head pound with the flow of life.

Eyes closed against the sunlight, he could see images against the black of hunts, demons, ghosts, beings spat up from Hell, determined to prey on mankind, forcing his family to take action.

_This is it… this is what I know._

Dropping his arm to his side and bearing his eyes to the elements, Dean took a deep breath. Lying flat teased him with an edge of vertigo enough that he wanted to hold onto the bed and keep it from spinning. He knew from countless "mornings after" that he needed to move and he needed to eat.

Rolling to his side, he felt his legs sluice across the bedspread, knowing the sound that should accompany it… the _shush_ of skin on polyester. He worked his jaw; the pressure in his ears increased for a moment and his gut tightened with the anticipation of the flood of sound, but nothing hit him. For a moment, aside from sitting in the middle of a muted world, he was free of pain.

He stood up, and the moment shattered. Slices of pain like broken glass beneath his skin shimmied up the sides of his face, framing his jaw and making a home behind his ears. Sighing, Dean moved to his duffel, dragging out boxers, jeans, and a gray T-shirt. Dressing quickly, he dug deeper for a long-sleeved shirt. His fingers brushed the leather sheath of his Bowie.

Frowning, Dean drew out the knife, turning its silver blade in the sunlight, watching it glint and glimmer, dazzling his eyes. The knife was generally considered a silent weapon. He could take out a bad guy without alerting others to his presence. He used it when stealth was essential.

_If I can see… I can hunt. If I never leave my back exposed… If I'm always on guard… I can still protect him. I can still do my job. I don't… _have_ to hear danger. Right?_

Moving over to their weapons bag, Dean pulled out his .45. Closing his eyes, he ran his hand down the barrel, letting the tips of his fingers find the grooves and lines as familiar to him as his own body. He ejected the magazine, setting it on the table, then calmly began to break down the gun.

When he had it in pieces, he took a breath, kept his eyes closed, ignored the stifling quiet that wrapped around him, and reassembled his weapon. His fingers moved confidently, gracefully. He lost himself in the motion, the repetition, the confidence that he could do this, he knew this, that this was as natural to him as hearing.

The scent of Ivory soap hit him a second before the hand brushed his shoulder. His body responded before his brain could catch up and calm him. Whirling, his eyes popping open, Dean pointed his loaded weapon at Sam's face, trigger finger spasming. Sam blinked in complete surprise, hands flying up as he staggered back a step.

Dean took a quick breath as he saw his name on his brother's lips, flicked the safety back on and lowered the gun.

"Don't sneak up on me like that, man," he growled, irritated at himself for reacting without thinking. _You gotta be better, faster, sharper. _

Sam shook his head, running a hand through his hair and as he turned away, Dean saw him say something. His chest tightened as he lost the meaning, but he didn't call Sam back. Puffing out a breath, he slid the gun in the hollow of his back, feeling better, normal, with its familiar weight there.

"Get dressed," he ordered, tempering his volume when he saw Sam flinch and duck his head. "We need food."

Sam looked over at him with a _how can you think of your stomach at a time like this_ expression, but obediently dug into his duffel. Dean watched him carefully. He knew his brother better than anyone, and he could tell from the stilted motion of his hands as he tugged on his jeans, the indecisive way he rolled through the last three clean T-shirts in his bag, the frustrated way he kept blowing his bangs away from his eyes that Sam was hiding something.

And he was willing to bet he knew what it was.

"You can quit worrying, Sammy," he said, feeling the words slip between his lips, purposefully soft. "You don't have to figure out how to leave me behind."

Sam drew his head up sharply, a dark blue T-shirt with a non-descript design ghosting the front clutched in his unbandaged hand. Dean saw the question form on his lips, the irrational hope in his eyes.

"No, I'm not staying here. I'm just saying you don't have to figure it out. 'Cause I'm not going to _let you_ leave me."

Sam sighed, his shoulders bowing, and pulled his shirt over his head, shaking the wet strands of hair away from his face. When on edge, Sam used his hands to speak. Spread them wide to encompass all the worries he carried on his broad shoulders, clenched them tight to illustrate his frustration—or his desire to strangle his brother—with the situation, shook them loose when he was searching for balance.

Dean watched him do all these things as a torrent of words spilled in rapid-fire descent from Sam's lips. The effort of pulling meaning from them was too much for Dean on an empty stomach, with nothing but pain pills and eardrops to sustain him. He looked away, not even bothering to watch Sam's mouth.

Sam stomped over, grabbing his arm in a rough grip and rotated him. Dean wavered slightly on his feet, the world tilting violently on its axis with the swiftness of that movement. Angry lines drew Dean's brows low, pursing his lips.

"Let go of me, man!"

Sam simply tightened his grip, drawing Dean's eyes up. This time he did focus.

_You need to be rational about this._

"I am, Sam. I'm going."

_No, Dean, please, just… please… think about this, okay?_

"I have thought about it! I can't think about anything else." He wrenched his arm free from Sam's hand and turned away slowly, reaching up to press his palms against his burning eyes for a moment. Turning back to face Sam, he said, "I'm not just your brother, Sammy. This is not just about… about watching out for you. I'm a hunter, man. This is what I know. This is _all I know_."

Sam looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dean watched him filter those words, watched him absorb. He picked up traces of stale cigarette smoke and sweat in the semi-filtered air, surmising that the air conditioner had kicked on in the silence. He swallowed. He had to get out of this room.

"Sam, c'mon, let's just… let's just check out the house, okay? I mean, you'll be right there. I can't get hurt if you're watching out for me, right?"

Sam looked up, eyebrow raised.

_I was there when you were blown up, remember?_

"Oh. Right." Dean felt the familiar sensation of nervous energy build up inside of him, pressing against his sternum, racing his heart. He started to pace slightly—four steps one way, four steps back—rolling his fingers into fists.

He knew Sam's eyes were on him, but the ache resting behind his ears wouldn't let him turn his head too quickly, so he worked to content himself with eyes front, feet moving.

Sam waved at him from his periphery and called a halt to his sojourn. He tilted his head.

"What?"

_There's more._

"More what?"

Sam waved him over and sat down facing his laptop. Dean frowned, confused. Sam pointed at the blank screen and began typing. Dean grinned.

"Nice, Sammy."

He watched as Sam's fingers flew over the keyboard, the story of digging up Camilla's body coming to life before his eyes in clear, Times New Roman font.

_Easier to read than lips, that's for damn sure,_ he thought.

When Sam reached the part about rolling her over, Dean straightened.

"Hold up, you're saying she was _buried_ face-down?"

Sam shook his head, typing, 'I don't think so. I think she rolled over in her grave.'

"Well, let's think about this a sec," Dean rubbed his upper lip. "Some practices believe that if a witch is buried face-down, she'll go to Hell."

'Camilla wasn't a witch,' Sam typed.

"You sure about that?"

'Positive.'

"Why?"

'Spend some time around George and you'll believe me.'

"So, what, you think she was maybe… buried alive and… ugh, tried to claw out?"

Sam simply looked at him.

"Man," Dean shuddered. "I can't think of a worse fate… waking up in a box, trying to get out… I mean, sure, it worked for Buffy, but she had super Slayer strength."

Sam smirked. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"Don't even. I know you watched it, too."

_For research purposes,_ Sam said.

"Research my ass. Oh, wait… research _Buffy's _ass…"

_Can we focus?_

"Right, sorry, okay so either buried alive, or… what? Someone did something…shocking enough that she literally… rolled over in her grave? Like that old saying?"

Sam turned back to the computer, pulling up a few sites he'd found that morning. He pointed to a paragraph that spoke of restless spirits and the manifestations of their need to communicate showing up in the decimation of their bodies. Broken bones post-mortem as if they'd been twisted, mouths opened in silent screams, backs arched in tortured positions.

"Dude… this is…" Dean shook his head, rubbing distractedly at his left ear. It had started to pulse in time with his heart. "I've never heard of that before, have you?"

Sam shrugged, typing, 'I was going to look it up in Dad's journal.'

"Good idea," Dean nodded, wincing. He drew his hand away, noticing the smeared blood on his fingertips. Turning from Sam he grabbed the stained towel he'd used earlier from the foot of the bed and wiped at his ear. "Let's look at it together, over breakfast…" he glanced at the clock, "or lunch."

Sam grabbed the towel from him, frowning. Dean stared back, a silent challenge.

"I'm fine, Sam," he said after a moment. "It doesn't hurt… much."

Sam's eyes were fierce when he looked up, almost sending Dean back a step with their emotion.

_You're lying._

"Does it matter?"

_Yes, it matters!_

"I've been hurt before and still did the job. How is this different?" Dean felt the volume build in his chest. Sam didn't say anything and Dean growled low in his throat, pushing at his brother lightly. "Huh? Tell me. How is this different?"

_Because, I…_

"Because, why? Talk to me, dammit!"

_Because I don't know how to protect you!_

Dean stopped pushing. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing.

"You don't have to protect me, Sam."

Sam looked at him and Dean felt as though he could crack beneath the weight in his brother's eyes.

"This time… we watch out for each other."

Sam's chest heaved as he worked to quiet his emotions, pulling his liquid eyes away from Dean. After a moment, he looked back, nodding.

_Okay,_ he said clearly. _But only if you wait in the car._

"What?!"

_Don't go back in that house, Dean. _

"Dude… there's probably something in the house that's after George and Wren. Hell, the _house_ could be after George and Wren."

_I know._

"Then why—"

Dean stopped, realization freezing his words in his throat. This was Sam's protection. This was his last line, his stronghold. This was where he'd been left for so many years, forced to watch his father and brother run off whole and return broken. This was the only thing he knew.

"Okay, Sam."

Sam blinked. _Okay_?

"You win," Dean nodded. "I'll behave. Now… can we please get some freakin' food?"

* * *

_Minnesota, 1994_

_I know it is him before he says my name. _

_His footsteps give him away. He rolls his feet in a heel-toe manner, making his gait as soft as possible. It's a habit I had at one time thought he'd picked up in the Marines, until I realized that Jim walked just like everyone else. _

_Only Dad can approach so silently, yet still put my entire body on alert._

_"Dean?"_

_"I'm awake."_

_"How you doing, Son?"_

_I feel my body relax at the name. He's back. Dad's back. For the first time in weeks I feel sleepy and safe._

_"'M okay."_

_"Sam doing better?"_

_"Sorta," I confess. Sam's dreams haven't eased in their intensity, but they have become less frequent. "I been working on something for him, though."_

_"Good," Dad says, sitting on the edge of my bed and tipping me toward him with his weight. He doesn't ask me what I am working on. He doesn't say anything. Just sits. And breathes._

_"Dad?"_

_"Hm?"_

_"You, uh… you get what you were after?" I want to ask him if he's okay, if he's hurt, if I can help. But there is something in the way he holds himself close that tells me without words that he wouldn't answer me._

_"Not yet," Dad sighs. "But I got closer. I got real close that time."_

_I lay in the dark and listen to my family breathe. Sam's open-mouth oblivion wars with Dad's controlled puffs. I can feel him working up to something, so I decide to spare him._

_"We're leaving again, aren't we?"_

_"Don't you think you've been here long enough?"_

_My mind replies with an instant _yes_ while my heart wails a silent _no_. I haven't finished the dream catcher. I don't know how to fasten the three stones. And I'm not leaving without that protection for Sam. He has to be able to put fear behind him. He has to be able to keep it together. Or…_

_"'Cause, if you don't want to come, I—"_

_"No, Dad," I sit up hurriedly, appalled that my hesitation to answer brings him to that conclusion. "No, we want to come. I just, uh… I got something I gotta do."_

_I see Dad's dark eyes glint at me in the pale starlight seeping through the window between our beds. He's let his beard grow in during the weeks away from us and his mouth is shadowed by it. I can't see if he's frowning, but I feel it._

_"It's for Sam," I continue, trying not to sound too desperate. I had to balance this carefully if I was going to get Dad to agree to stay here for just a little while longer. _

_Dad tips his head, asking a silent question. I look over at Sam and realize suddenly that he's awake. I don't know how much he's heard, but he's watching us, frozen, as if he isn't quite sure if what he's seeing is real._

_"Hey," I say to him. "You okay?"_

_He nods, then his eyes shift to Dad. _

_"Dad?"_

_Dad gets up and I slide my foot into the warm area his body left behind on my bed. He crosses to Sam and sits down. _

_"Hey, kiddo," he says softly, gathering Sam up in a soft hug. _

_My skin aches in reaction to seeing something I want but cannot have. Rolling my neck, I banish the rebellious thoughts that swim up at the sight of my father holding my brother. _

_"Are we gonna go now?" Sam asks, his voice muffled against Dad's shoulder._

_Dad glances in my direction, but his eyes don't hit me. I wait, holding my breath. _

_"Soon," Dad answers. "I think I need a day or two to… regroup."_

_"But we'll go with you when you leave, right?" Sam asks, pulling away and looking up at Dad. _

_Dad nods, his eyes smiling. I see the folds along the sides of his face that give him away. And something inside of me breaks. _

_"You're coming with me. I need you two."_

_"You got a hunt?"_

_"Maybe," Dad answers me. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk more in the morning."_

_"Jim know you're here?" I ask._

_"He knows," Dad asserts. _

_"Okay," I settle back against the pillows, watching Dad rise from Sam's bed, cross to the door and look back at us. "Dad?"_

_He shakes his head at my encompassing question. "You did good, boys," he says. "You did real good."_

_He steps from the room, and I look over at Sam. He's watching me quietly. I wonder what he's thinking. His face is just enough shadowed that I can't see the usual tells. Sighing, feeling warm, yet oddly empty, I pull the flannel sheet over my shoulder and burrow into my pillow._

_"Dean?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"I don't hate him," Sam whispers._

_"I know."_

* * *

There was one greasy spoon in Lynch Heights and Sam drove for it as if caught in a tractor beam.

They moved to the back booth, against the wall, and Dean slid into the side that faced the restaurant. Sam knew Dean needed to have his back to the wall, needed to be able to see, but he wished the end result didn't leave him feeling so exposed. He watched his brother with amusement as he quietly charmed the waitress, ordering his usual cheeseburger, fries, soda and pie.

Sam felt his own dimples digging into his cheeks in a reply as the waitress retreated from their table with a decidedly lighter step than she had approached.

"You're unbelievable," he said softly as Dean watched her walk away. "Didn't hear a word she said, but it didn't matter, did it?"

"Something about those short skirts does funny things to me," Dean said, loud enough that the man at the counter to Sam's left looked over at him. Sam kicked him under the table. Dean flinched and turned an automatic scowl toward Sam until he saw the finger covering Sam's lips. "Oh, right," he flipped his hands up on the table in surrender and rolled his eyes. "My bad."

Sam heard the bell over the door clang, but he didn't turn until he saw the shadow of distrust cross Dean's face. Looking over his shoulder, he smiled in greeting to see Mike approaching their booth. He held out a hand to shake as Mike slid into his side of the booth.

"Hey, man," he said.

"How's your hand?" Mike asked him, then nodded in Dean's direction.

"Good," Sam replied, immediately on-edge with Dean's defensive posture.

"What's he doing here?" Dean asked sullenly.

"I called him," Sam said carefully.

"When?"

"Earlier."

"Why?"

Sam looked down, licking his lip, searching for the words to answer his brother that wouldn't etch more cracks in his already bruised ego. He heard the weight of Dean's slow sigh and lifted his eyes to meet his brother's. The green of Dean's irises caught him with shame and he leveled his chin in retaliation.

"Forget it," Dean replied. "Do what you have to do, Sam."

Sam heard what he didn't say. He heard the quiet declaration of _I'll show you I can still do my job…_

"Dean—"

Dean held up a hand, masking a charming smile over cold eyes as the waitress appeared and delivered their food, then took Mike's order.

"Just a salad, thanks," Mike requested. "And a Coke."

Sam looked over at him, taking a quick measure of the man who had put him back together and discovered him in a rather compromising position, yet still hadn't cried uncle—or worse yet, _cops_.

"Thanks for coming," Sam said, resolutely ignoring the dark clouds growing in Dean's eyes as his brother watched the exchange. He knew that if he wasn't facing Dean, there was little chance he'd follow the conversation.

"You said you needed help," Mike replied, also not looking at Dean.

"Yeah, uh, listen," Sam dug into his salad. "We think there's something going on at the house. Last couple of owners have—" Motion from Dean caught his attention. "—uh, have…"

Dean pulled out John's journal, flipping through it casually, looking, Sam knew, for something about being buried face-down or rolling over in a grave. Looking for what they'd agreed to talk about before Sam surprised his brother with a stand-in hunter.

"Have?" Mike prompted.

Sam cleared his throat, turning back to Mike. "Have died under strange circumstances."

"So… what?" Mike frowned. "The _house_ is after George and Wren?"

"Maybe," Sam shrugged. "It's not the first time."

"Your lives are weird, man," Mike shook his head, watching Dean inhale his cheeseburger while reading through the journal. "What's he reading?"

"Our Dad's hunting journal. Looking for clues," Sam said around a mouthful of salad.

"Clues about… the house?"

Sam shook his head. "About why Camilla rolled over in her grave."

They stopped talking when the waitress brought Mike's lunch. Dean glanced up as she walked away, then back to the journal. Sam frowned. Dean's silence felt like a weapon wielded by an expert slicing through his conscience. No one knew better how to use quiet as the one who usually made the most noise.

"Find anything?" Mike asked, drawing Sam back into the conversation.

Sam chewed his lunch, watching his brother stare at the same page in the journal, his eyes not moving, his body tight.

"Yeah," he said softly. _But he's not gonna give it up with you here._

"So, you wanna go to the house, then," Mike stated, spearing a hunk of lettuce with his fork, his tone clearly conveying that he wasn't interested in getting in the middle of whatever struggle was twisting between the brothers.

"Yeah, what's left of it," Sam nodded. "Need to check into a few things… didn't know if George would be up for it."

"He's there now, actually," Mike said.

"He is?" Sam replied, surprised. "Huh."

"I took them over there this morning to get some of their things."

"Hey, Den—er, uh, _Mike_," Dean said suddenly, drawing their eyes. "What do you know about how Camilla died?"

Sam looked at Mike, watching as the older man regarded his brother carefully, his dark eyes secretive.

"Well," Mike shrugged. "I only know what George said, really."

Sam felt Dean's eyes, realizing quickly that his brother wasn't able to absorb what Mike said. He held up a finger, trying to convey with his eyes that he got it. He knew what Dean needed.

"I know she had been worried about something, told him she wanted to talk to him, then went to the church picnic, died of a heart attack."

Sam repeated the information, feeling an odd sense of pride at his connection to his brother. The fact that Dean could understand what _he_ said, and didn't follow anyone else made him feel…powerful.

"And she wasn't sick before?" Dean asked, eyes darting between Sam and Mike, looking for translation.

Mike shook his head. "Not that I know of."

Dean's eyes slid to the side. He pulled his lower lip in, working his jaw in a war against the tension that corded the muscles there as a line between his brows deepened.

"Dean?" Sam called, watching closer as Dean's color faded, his eyes seemed to fade a bit in his face, but his brother didn't move. Sam tapped the table twice under Dean's far-away gaze. "Dean."

Dean looked down at Sam's hand, then slowly raised his gaze. Sam felt his gut turn to ice once more at the pain echoed in the hollows of his brother's eyes, the tension in the way he held his body.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Fine," Dean answered tightly. "We checking out this house, or what?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, looking at Dean's half-eaten pile of fries and un-touched pie. Dean caught his gaze and pushed his plate away.

"Yeah, sure," Sam nodded, motioning with his head for Mike to slide out. The trio headed to the cash register and Sam and Mike paid, Dean waiting until they were done to step through the door.

He slid without argument, this time, into the passenger seat of the Impala, waiting on Sam to join him.

"What's with him?" Mike asked, folding his receipt and putting it into his wallet.

"You mean besides the fact that he can't hear anything?" Sam snapped.

"That'll go away," Mike said. "Give the eardrums some time to heal, and he'll be fine."

"That's not exactly reassuring when you're in our business," Sam said softly, looking through the windshield at Dean's sullen profile. "Besides… he gets hit with this… pain, and…"

"And what?"

"His ear was bleeding again this morning," Sam dropped his eyes to the ground, drawing loops in the dirt with the toe of his worn boot.

"That can happen," Mike said nonchalantly. "Just make sure you keep using those drops. He sure doesn't like me, does he?"

Sam glanced over at the hard edge to his voice. "It has nothing to do with you, man. It's what you represent to him."

Mike frowned. "What, help?"

"Exactly," Sam nodded. "Dean doesn't ask for help." He looked back at his brother. "He _is_ help."

"Everyone needs something sometime," Mike declared.

"Yeah, well," Sam flipped the Impala's keys around his finger, moving toward the driver side door. "You get him believing that, you're doing better than me."

Mike shook his head. "I'll meet you at the house."

Sam dropped into the driver's seat, pulling the door shut and starting the engine. He paused before shifting into reverse, watching Dean look out the side window.

"You could be nicer to him, you know," he said, aware that Dean wouldn't absorb his words. "He's just trying to help."

Dean didn't move. Sighing, Sam pulled from the lot and headed in the direction of the Cooper house, passing the garage where Sadie worked, the bar she mentioned in passing, the police station, the grocery store, the library. The unnatural quiet of the car felt like water pressing down on him, filling his lungs and making breathing a challenge.

"Y'know, Dean," he said, just to reassure himself that he could still speak, that he could still hear himself, that he wasn't lost. "This doesn't have to be all you have. You could have a different life."

He glanced at his brother, who sat stubbornly leaning against the window, lips tight, body clenched. Bobby's words filtered back to him, about being an old married couple. They spent so much time together they knew the rhythm of each other's breath. He knew of no other siblings that lived such a co-dependent lifestyle.

"You could have a different life," he repeated softly, "but you don't want one. Do you?"

The constant threat of death was a factor, as was the manner in which their father had chosen to raise them. Sam sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck as he'd seen Dean do so often. The burden of responsibility came with a high price to the only lives they were ever going to have. And with that consistent proximity to each other, annoyances were easily shifted away and in their wake came an almost telepathic understanding.

Dean could read him. Better than anyone. And in this moment when Dean was cut off from everyone and everything, their link, their comprehension, their brotherhood could bring him peace.

Sam reached over, gently resting his hand on Dean's shoulder so as not to startle him. Dean jerked slightly, but turned his head to face Sam. His eyes seemed to fill his face, his freckles standing out like markers to the truth, his lips tight and serious, his worry evident.

"I'll be careful," he said.

"You bet your ass you will," Dean replied, his voice like that of an old record, scratchy but solid, the music faded but still present. "And don't think I'm gonna make a habit of waiting in the damn car."

Sam nodded.

"I mean it, Sam."

"I know you do."

"Can't believe I friggin' agreed to this…"

Sam pulled up behind Mike's blue truck; the sight of George's gutted house in the metallic light of mid-day melted the ice of worry into a churning mass of dread in Sam's belly.

"Sam."

"Yeah?" Sam looked at his brother.

"Dad's journal said that the body of a restless spirit can roll over in its grave if its message is… like… not received."

Sam looked back at the burned-out house. "Yeah," he sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

The brothers stepped out of the car, shutting their doors in unison. Dean moved around the front of the car, leaning against the front quarter panel, tucking his fingers into the front pockets of his pants, and waited. Sam scanned the blackened shards of wood and barely-there walls for any sign of George or Wren.

"Sam?"

He turned at the sound of his name, seeing George leading Wren toward them from the garage that still stood, several feet separate from the house.

"That you?"

"Yeah. Hi, George."

"Bring your brother with you?"

"And Mike," Sam nodded at the other man as he climbed out of his truck.

"Wren and me have been trying to save some of our stuff," George said, leading Wren to the truck until she was able to put her hand out and find her parameter. "Not much left, 'cept my memories, I'm afraid."

"George," Mike said, his deep rumble gentle as he tried to help Sam break the news of their real reason for coming. "We need to take a look around inside the house."

George frowned. "For what?"

"Uh… EMF," Sam said.

"Come again?" George tilted his head, confusion plain in his smoky eyes.

"I've been looking in to your problem, and, well," Sam looked at Dean who simply shrugged. He had no idea what Sam was looking for. "I think there might be something in your house that… wants to… hurt you."

George laughed, then sobered when he saw that Sam was serious. "Something in the… _house_?"

"It's not any crazier than hearing your song, or thinking your wife is haunting you," Sam protested.

"Camy wasn't haunting," George protested. "Don't make it sound… _wrong_. She was trying to tell me something. Something she never got to tell me that Sunday."

"I think the thing she might've been trying to tell you had something to do with the house," Sam persisted. "It won't take long, I promise."

George studied him carefully for a moment. Sam licked his lips in anticipation. If George didn't go for this, they'd just have to come back in the night and check it out…or…not.

He looked over at Dean, taking in the unnatural stillness of his brother's stance, the disconcerting quiet coming from his normally garrulous brother. It felt wrong to move through this hunt as if Dean had suddenly reverted back to childhood, incapable of searching out facts, defending himself.

_Maybe we just leave… let Dean recover. Maybe we don't have to fix this one,_ he thought.

"Okay," George said finally. "We'll go, but Wren stays out here with your brother."

"Fine," Sam nodded, turning to get the EMF reader from the trunk. Dean followed him, frowning.

"You're going in?" Dean asked, his voice carefully level.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. He looked up. "Wren's staying with you."

"What?" Dean's hand launched out and gripped his arm. "No, Sam, don't you leave me with her."

Sam pulled his head back in confusion. "What's your problem, Dean? She's just a girl—a _blind_ girl."

"She… no, she's… there's something… she just shows up… and she touched my face…" Dean looked over at where Wren stood, leaning against Mike's truck, her porcelain face serene. "She's… not right."

Sam rolled his eyes, shutting the trunk. "Well, we'll just have to live with that for now. Be good."

"Bite me," Dean growled as Sam walked away.

Sam shot a look back over his shoulder, the image of Dean leaning against the black skin of the Impala, arms crossed, face dark with frustrated anger, seared into the backs of his eyes.

_I'm so going to get his ass kicked for this one._

They crossed the lawn three abreast, George between them, stepping over mangled pieces from his house, blackened from the blast, soggy from the attempts to assuage the blaze. Sam recognized picture frames, dishes, pieces of books, lamps, burned remains of Wren's wind chimes. He stepped carefully across the entrance, heeding George's warning about the weak boards, and moved into the skeleton of the home.

The smell of wet ash permeated his nostrils as he made his way through the chaos. With each step, Sam swore he heard odd echoes of voices, memories of times spent in the house. Another smell assaulted him as he reached the back of the house: death and rot. It was an odor he was unfortunately familiar with and would not soon forget.

The back of the house remained oddly intact. The kitchen had been located at the front, blowing out the main room and some of the upper floor, but leaving the back bedrooms, the mudroom, and George's den. Mike and George spoke quietly about the destruction they were seeing; Sam let their voices fall to background noise as he moved the EMF meter through the house, eyes intent on the gauge.

As he reached the den, the meter spiked, its harsh scream drawing the attention of Mike and George.

"What the hell?" Mike hurried over. "Is it… dying?"

"There's some supernatural activity around here," Sam explained, following the strength of the reading to the far, upper corner of the room. "What's above us?"

"Bedrooms," George said in a dreamy voice, the broken body of a carved bird from the wind chimes held delicately in his hands.

"I need to get up there." Sam turned and pushed past Mike to exit the room.

"Sam, wait!" Mike called. "The stairs are gone."

"Then, I'll climb up."

"With that hand?" Mike shook his head, grabbing Sam's shoulder. "I don't want to stitch it again."

Sam rolled his eyes. "My hand is fine. Just… boost me up."

Mike lifted an eyebrow. "Boost you up. You do realize you're about four inches taller than me."

"So?"

"You boost _me_ up," Mike countered.

They both looked up at the bottom of the landing hovering about a foot over Sam's head. Sam sighed. He needed to get up there and check out the rooms—explaining the EMF meter to Mike wasn't a viable option for him right now.

"Listen, I need to see what's causing this reading," Sam explained. "Just help me up, I'll check it out, and we can go."

"I'm coming with you," Mike declared.

"I swear, you're as stubborn as my brother," Sam muttered, joining Mike in looking around for something to stand on.

"Yeah? Well, I think I'll take that as a compliment," Mike grabbed a chair. "George, hold this thing."

George moved over as if in slow motion, his eyes distant. "You hear that?"

Sam and Mike looked at him quickly. "What?" they asked in unison.

"The music. It's her, it's Camy," George looked slowly around the ravaged room, humming.

"George…" Mike stepped up to him, snapping his fingers in front of George's eyes. "Hey, George, you with me?"

"I'm standing right here, aren't I?"

"I don't hear anything, man," Mike said softly, placing a hand on George's shoulder.

George looked at his friend's face, his sadness suddenly so palpable that Sam took a step back. He felt instantly swamped by grief, his limbs pulled low, heavy with loss. His heart slowed, pounding out a tattoo of regret, his skin ached with the need to be touched, the knowledge that it was never going to happen again. A voice in his head wept.

"We are spirits clad in veils…"

Mike shot a look over to him, his black eyes snapping with anger born of confusion. "What was that?"

George, too, blinked, dropping the broken wooden bird, staring at Sam. "What was that?"

Sam felt his knees give way as the room spun in a lazy circle around him, his breath returning in a great rush, sparks dancing at the corners of his eyes. "What. The. Hell?"

He blinked, clearing his vision. His stomach rolled slightly and he clamped his lips tight against the threat of sickness.

"What was that about… veils?" Mike asked, moving toward him.

"You heard it, too?" Sam asked, pushing himself carefully to his feet and resting his back on what was left of the wall.

"Heard it?" George stepped forward, reaching for Sam's arm. "You said it, Son."

"_I_ said it?" Sam squeaked.

Mike nodded. "Right after you went about three shades of gray."

Sam shivered. "We gotta get up there," he declared. He pushed away from the wall, wavering. "In a second."

"What was that you said, though?" Mike persisted.

"How the hell should I know?" Sam shot back.

"It's the inscription on Wren's locket," George revealed.

Sam and Mike looked at him. "Huh?"

"When Wren came to us, she had been staying at a group home since the accident. The only things she brought with her were the clothes on her back and a locket. It was empty inside, except for that inscription."

"What does it mean?" Sam asked, looking down at the broken glass and pieces of charcoaled wood beneath his feet. The knees of his jeans were dusty black from the soot.

"She said she didn't know," George shrugged. "Talking about her family and the accident always upset her, so Camy and I just let it go."

Mike looked at Sam, who returned his look. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow. If the rich-voiced PA standing in front of him had been a bow-legged, green-eyed hunter with a smirk to match the cocky expression in his eyes, Sam's answer would have been an unequivocal _yes_. "Well, that depends. You thinking we need to check out those rooms?"

Mike frowned. "Well, yeah, but… I was also thinking that Camilla knew something about Wren's parents—she said she had something to tell George right?"

"Don't jump to conclusions," Sam advised. "Dean's always doing that. We can't just act on gut instinct alone—we need to check stuff out, first."

He climbed up on the chair, releasing his hold on the wooden furniture when he felt George balance the rungs.

"Oh, so you're Scully and he's Mulder, that it?" Mike said, supporting Sam's legs as he reached for the ledge.

"Why is that the first place everyone goes?" Sam wondered aloud, his voice straining as he stretched with his good hand to reach for the ledge and pull himself up.

"You gotta admit," Mike said, working to boost Sam's bulk upward, puffing along with Sam as he leveled his chest on the landing and wiggled up and over. "Your job's just not mainstream."

Sam took a breath, then leaned over to reach down for Mike's hand. "Mainstream like…" he grunted as he worked to pull the solidly built man up next to him. "A black cowboy that works as a PA and a Justin Healer?"

Mike rolled to his back to catch his breath. "Yeah," he panted. "Mainstream like that."

"You ready for this?"

"Dude, only Bill Murray would be ready for this," Mike pushed himself to his feet.

Sam chuckled. "Too bad Dean can't hear you," he commented. "He'd like you."

"He'll be okay, Sam," Mike assured, his caretaker instincts taking over as Sam felt the frown deepen on his face. "Some things just take time."

"Right," Sam breathed, wrinkling his nose against the stench that hit them from all sides as they moved precariously down the tattered hall. "Hey, George!"

"Yeah?"

"You guys have any pets?"

"Pets? No… no pets."

"You smell that?" Sam asked Mike, his answer obvious in the grimace on Mike's face. "Something died up here."

The EMF reader bounced a bit as they moved forward, spiking suddenly in front of the first relatively unmarked door. Sam turned to face the door, watching the needle bury itself in the red. He lifted an eyebrow in Mike's direction.

"You know whose room this is?"

Mike shrugged. "You got me."

Sam tried the handle. Locked. He dug into his coat pocket and brought out a lock-pick kit.

"Why don't you just kick it open?" Mike wondered.

"Okay, now you're starting to scare me," Sam mumbled, pick held tight in his lips. "We don't know what's on the other side of this door—think maybe kicking it in might send the wrong message?" He lifted his eyes to Mike, watching him shrug in response.

The click of the lock triggered Sam's nod of satisfaction. He tucked away the kit, then stood, squaring his shoulders. He glanced sideways at Mike, suddenly wishing desperately that the eyes that met his were green, not dark brown. The _family business_ meant both of them, no matter how much they annoyed each other, no matter what promises they were forced to make, no matter what future might be waiting for either of them.

They had to be in this together, or not at all.

"Here goes nothing," Sam said, turning the handle and opening the door carefully.

The smell of death wafted out and around them like a live thing, causing them to gag and cover their mouths. Sam's eyes watered as he pushed the door all the way open. The room was sparsely decorated: bed with a white eyelet cover, dresser, empty desk. The windows were curtainless, the closet stood open, only a few pairs of pants were hanging on the hangers.

And covering the floor were the bodies of dozens of dead birds.

www

Dean watched Sam disappear into the house, trying to pin his gaze to his brother's blue shirt.

_This is wrong. All of it. I need to be in there…_

He could smell the ash from the extinguished fire, the dirt embedded in the tires of the vehicle beneath him, the distinctive scent of fresh-mown grass from somewhere nearby. When he focused, he realized he could even smell grease, motor oil, the tang of WD-40… and, he swore that the stench of manure wafted from the back of Mike's truck.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Wren slide slowly along the bed of the truck, her hands spread out to feel her way toward him. He felt his body tighten in response—and not in the places he usually found himself responding to women. There was something about her hands, her touch, something about how she'd traced his face that had curled the edges of his heart, collapsing his lungs against his ribs.

He didn't want her to touch him again. Watching her advance, he moved as quietly as possible toward the trunk of the Impala, away from her. He didn't register the stick he cracked until it rolled under his foot. Looking down, he cursed.

Wren's mouth moved, as if she were calling to him. He sighed. The pressure behind his ears grew and he rubbed carefully at his jaw, trying to soothe the ache.

"I'm right here. Let's just… hang out okay?"

_Translation, you stay with your truck, I'll stay with my car. We'll… just stay nice and… aw, shit, you're gonna come closer, aren't you?_

Wren cautiously crossed the short empty space between the vehicles, her doll-like fingers dancing along the edges of the Impala's black shell in a soft staccato beat, searching for him. Dean forced himself to hold still, to not back away from a slip of a girl who was just searching for a way not to be alone in the darkness that surrounded her.

A small piece of him yearned to reach back to her, to tell her that he was starting to understand what it felt like to have a piece of himself cut off, to feel removed from his life, from his world, from the only things that mattered to him. He wanted to tell her that he, too, knew loss and loneliness.

But the part of him that worked overtime to protect those he loved from the serrated edge of his real feelings refused to back down. He turned guarded eyes to her sightless ones, pulling himself close, drawing in his belly, separating himself without moving.

"Listen, Wren… I, uh, I know this has gotta be hard for you and everything, but," he paused as she stiffened, her mouth moving hesitantly.

He focused on her lips, trying to draw in what she was saying as he seemed to so easily be able to do with Sam. It was simply movement without meaning. He comprehended nothing.

She continued to talk, though, her hands flitting from her sides like faerie wings, conveying something he was sure she found important. He felt a throb in one of the cuts on his forehead as a soft wind picked up, tossing the scent of sweat and death his way. He frowned, looking over at the house at the same time as Wren.

The trio that had disappeared inside the house had yet to reappear. He wanted to call out to his brother, to check on him, but knew it was a wasted effort as anything Sam said back would be lost to him. Tightening his lips against his teeth, he kicked at the ground, digging the toe of his boot into the grass.

_Friggin' waste of time… I should be doing something. Anything._

His eyes roamed the outside of the house, following the line of damage from the blast. It was as if the structure had exhaled, blowing bits of itself across the yard like a bad _Animal House_, John Belushi imitation. Oddly, there were flowers intact along the side of the house that remained standing. White flowers, tall with a lily-like bud.

He tilted his head, frowning. A memory skittered along the back of his mind, teasing him. Images from his father's journal, flashes of voices from his past, teaching him, showing him, warning him. He stared harder and realized belatedly that the voices he thought were memories seemed to be getting louder, echoing in the hollow space inside his ears, reverberating harshly in the damaged acoustics within.

He flinched, looking away from the flowers, leaning on the Impala. The voices grew in strength, blending, twisting, spiking. He groaned, pressing his hands flat against his ears, futilely trying to block out a sound that came from within. The ache grew until his neck cracked from the pressure, until his groan turned into a helpless cry of pain, until he felt the small pebbles of the driveway dig into the knees of his jeans as he collapsed.

A cool hand caressed his forehead.

"We are spirits clad in veils…"

"Son of a bitch!" Dean jerked away from Wren, stumbling, falling to his rear and pushing gravel into tiny piles with the heels of his boots as he moved back.

Wren advanced, her face fisted in what could, to Dean, be either worry or regret. She reached for him, her mouth moving. Dean glanced to the house, his eyes catching on the flowers again, and suddenly, he _knew_.

"Get back," he panted, swallowing the taste of tin and salt that seemed to flood his mouth. "You just… just get the hell away from me."

Wren stepped closer, a smile quaking at the corner of her small, pink mouth. Desperate, Dean licked the sweat from his upper lip and scrambled back further, reaching with a clumsy grip for his back waistband.

"Get _back_," he shouted, pulling his gun and aiming it at Wren's chest. She froze as the muzzle touched her, lifting her graceful fingers to the weapon, sliding them along the barrel, then back toward his grip.

"I'll fuckin' do it, I swear to God," Dean said, his voice dangerously low.

Wren's lips tipped down into a frown, and as Dean watched, she shifted her eyes, looking directly at him, all blankness gone. He gasped at the unexpected sensation of being seen.

"_Enosis_," she said, and Dean felt the word slip from her lips and bury itself in his wounded ears before all sound, all meaning, all balance was lost.

All that was left was pain.

www

He thought the birds were horrifying, until he emerged to see his brother pressing the barrel of his gun against a blind girl's chest.

"Dean!"

His shout went unnoticed—even by Wren. Breaking away from the shocked faces of George and Mike, Sam loped across the yard. He reached the pair just as Wren spoke.

_"Enosis,_" she said.

Sam skidded to a halt, feeling himself reel. He was overwhelmed by a sudden sensation of floating—not unlike the spell in the house—and was smacked with vertigo. One moment he was standing next to Dean and the next he felt himself step aside, riding on the high of the dizzying sensation. He wanted to breathe, knew that was what he _should_ do, but the rush was too much.

A cry of pain shook through him as effectively as if someone had grabbed his shirt and wrenched him free from darkness. He staggered forward, his unbalanced weight hitting his brother and knocking him into the side of the car, the .45 tumbling free of Dean's grasp.

"Dean," Sam gasped, realizing the strangled scream had come from his brother. "Hey, take it easy," he tucked his wounded hand under Dean's bicep, wrapping his other arm around his brother's back, and pulled him away from Wren.

"What the hell is going on?" George demanded, gathering up a now-trembling Wren. "Why was he pointing a gun at you?"

Wren turned to face George, the tracks of her tears reflecting in the dying light of the late afternoon sun.

"I-I don't… I don't know…" she sobbed. "I just wanted him to know… know he wasn't alone…"

Dean struggled out of Sam's grasp. "Get off me," he growled, keeping a hand pressed to his head. "Let me go, Sam!"

Sam fell back, no match for Dean's will. He grabbed the gun quickly and shoved it in his waistband before Dean could, meeting his brother's stone-faced stare squarely.

"I want an explanation for all of this!" George demanded.

Sam sighed, tenting his knees, and dropping his hands in the empty space between his legs. "I know you do," he said. "But I don't have one right now."

"I mean… Camy's song, dead birds in Wren's room, my _house_ is gone…"

George's voice cracked as the weight of his loss began to crush him.

"C'mon, George," Mike spoke up. "Let me get you and Wren back to the hotel, rest up a bit."

"Not until I find out why he," George pointed a shaking, age-spotted finger at Dean, "was pointing a gun at my girl."

Dean was staring at Sam, his back to the Impala's door, unnaturally still. Sam looked from George to Dean, then back. The unanswered questions swirled around them like a miasma of guilt and frustration, secrets slicing through the fog and twisting truth into lies.

"I'll talk to him," Sam promised. "I'll find out."

"When you do," George said, reaching into his pocket. "You come get me." He tossed a key at Sam, who plucked it from the air. "I want a goddamn explanation."

Sam nodded, then pushed slowly to his feet. He met Mike's eyes. There was something lingering in his gaze. "What?" Sam asked.

"He knows something," Mike said softly, not looking at Dean, but it was clear to Sam who he was referring to. "Doesn't he?"

Sam lifted a shoulder, looking back at the house. "I sure hope so."

"You call me if you, uh," he glanced at Dean, then back to Sam. "If you need _anything_, okay?"

Sam nodded, shaking Mike's hand. He stood still as George and Wren climbed into Mike's truck. As Mike fired up the big diesel engine, George turned in his seat. The look in his eyes was like a knife in Sam's heart.

"I need a beer," Dean said from his perch on the ground next to the Impala.

Sam glanced down, shaking his head. "You need to start talking," he said, making sure Dean 'heard' him.

"First things first, man," Dean sighed, using the Chevy to stand. "Don't argue. Just drive."

He looked at Sam a moment longer, long enough for Sam to sigh tiredly and admit to himself that it had been a helluva day.

"Fine. Where?"

"Sadie's place," Dean replied.

"The garage?"

Dean rolled his eyes slightly. "Don't you ever listen? Judo. That club she works at." He moved around to the passenger side of the car muttering with a shake of his head, "The garage…"

Lifting his lips in a sassy snarl, Sam mimicked Dean's words, then dropped into the driver's seat.

"What do you—" he started, turning to face Dean.

Dean ignored him, looking out of the window.

"Fine," Sam snapped, flipping the car around in a spray of gravel and heading for the bar.

Thoughts pin balled in Sam's head hard and fast, making his eyes ache and his jaw tight. He was tired from what, to him, felt like carrying the hunt and caring for his brother. Glancing at Dean, Sam felt guilty for his thoughts the moment they surfaced, knowing that if the situation was reversed, Dean would shoulder the responsibility without complaint.

It was simply what he did.

The noise of the bar fell around Sam like a blanket of protection, giving them space to talk alone in a crowd of people. He didn't recognize the song blaring loud enough to be heard over the dozens of conversations creating a buzz in the room, but he knew the voice. Someone was an Alice In Chains fan. He was only sorry Dean couldn't hear it. His habit of tapping his fingers against his leg to the beat of a song inside or outside of him as a way to focus his thoughts had always driven Sam crazy.

Until it was gone.

_"As of now I bet you've got me wrong, so unsure you run from something strong…"_

Sam plucked Dean's sleeve, leading him through the crowd of tattooed bikers with bandanas covering their graying hair, college-aged pool hustlers, business men with loosened ties and unbuttoned collars, and lonely women with too-short skirts and too-low tops.

They settled side-by-side at the bar, leaning their elbows on the edge and curling their shoulders forward in unison. Sam ordered two beers from the white-haired bartender who looked like he'd missed one meal too many. Sam found himself scanning the man's waist for weapons, then glanced at Dean to see he was doing the same.

With pints in hand, the brothers turned to face each other.

"Spill it."

"Wren's not what you think she is."

"She's not a blind girl who lost her parents?" Sam frowned, noting the _what_ not _who_ in Dean's statement.

"No," Dean sipped his beer, looking quickly around the bar as if searching for someone.

_Sadie,_ Sam realized. Wounded or not, Dean was not one to pass up an opportunity like that.

"What do you think _enosis_ means?" Sam asked suddenly, watching Dean's eyes widen.

"You heard that?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "Something weird happened in the house, too," he turned back to the bar, lost in thought. He almost began talking again before Dean tugged on his arm, pulling him back around. "Sorry," he sighed, then, careful to speak slowly and clearly, folding his lips around every word, he told Dean about the birds and what he'd apparently said while exploring the house.

"Dude," Dean said, rubbing his forehead. "I've heard that twice now."

"You've… what?"

"Yeah, _heard_ it. Like a… a voice inside my head. Both times when Wren touched me."

"Okay, random."

Dean folded his hands up in a shrug. "There's something else."

"Of course there is."

"Someone planted oleander around the house."

Sam choked on his beer. "What?"

"Oleander—it's a flower, Sam."

"I know what it is," Sam replied, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Question is, how do _you_ know what it is?"

"What? I can't have layers?" Dean rubbed harder at his head, then rolled his neck. "The friggin' thing's poisonous, Sam. Witches use it. Think Dad wouldn't have taught me how to recognize it?"

Sam had to give him that, frowning as Dean's effort to rub his pain away started to leave red marks on his skin and pulled at the cuts on his face. He wanted to push Dean's hand away.

"So… oleander," Sam dipped his chin to catch Dean's eyes. "What are you thinking?"

"I think someone poisoned the old lady," Dean sighed. "Triggered that heart attack."

"You think it was _Wren_?"

Dean's eyebrows raised in inverted V's. "Who else, Sam? She just… shows up and four weeks later, Camilla dies? The same day she told George she had something to tell him?"

"That could have been anything, Dean," Sam hissed, turning away again.

"Why are you so hot to defend this girl, man?"

Sam faced him. "Why do _you_ want to crucify her?" He snapped on a heated breath. "She's been traumatized, Dean. She watched her parents die. That does something to you."

Dean's eyes darkened and a wall slammed between them so fast Sam almost gasped.

"No kidding," Dean replied.

Sam began to rub his own head, the direction of the conversation building pressure behind his eyes. "I just don't think it's her, is all. I just… I get a feeling about her."

"Me too," Dean snapped. "And maybe my _feeling_ isn't influenced by her damsel-in-distress act that seems to be doing a pretty good number on you."

"Maybe _your_ feeling is colored by the fact that she's dealing with her issues and you can't," Sam returned, regretting it the moment it was out of his mouth, but unable to pull it back.

Dean stared at him a moment, then turned away. Sam put a hand on his shoulder, but Dean shrugged it off.

"Dean?"

Sam turned at the female voice.

"Hey," Sadie grinned. "I wondered if you two would show up!" She shimmied up to the bar on the other side of Dean, drawing his eyes and an automatic grin.

"Hey there," he said, finally noticing her.

"Damn! What happened to you?" She frowned, her large eyes taking in the cuts and bruises on Dean's face. Sam saw her run her tongue across her bottom lip in an unconscious gesture, as if the sight of his brother's wounds made her mouth dry.

"We were caught in that explosion at the Cooper's," Sam explained.

"Oh, no way!" Sadie shot her eyes to Sam, then back to Dean. "Oh, man, that's awful!"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, sipping his beer. "Dean got a pretty back concussion… can't really hear things all that well right now."

Sadie reached up and traced a finger down the edge of Dean's ear, her lips dipping in an attractive pout. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Sam was surprised. Part of him expected her to yell. She kept her eyes on Dean and Sam saw his brother's grin turn slightly feral as he watched her.

"I'll, um… go… over, uh, yeah, there," Sam turned on his stool and found the jukebox with his eyes. "Gotta be something other than AIC on that thing, right?"

"Don't bet on it," Sadie said, not taking her eyes from Dean's face.

Sam tugged Dean's sleeve. "You gonna be okay?"

Dean lifted a brow. "Some things don't require words, Sammy."

Sam sighed, then ambled toward the jukebox. Leaning his forearm on the clear glass cover, Sam scanned the CDs in Judo's collection. Sadie had been right. Sighing, Sam continued to click through, searching for something he recognized, something that didn't make him think of Dean behind the wheel of the Impala screaming lyrics at the top of his lungs while he beat time against his legs. Something that gave him _some_ idea how they were going to move forward from this point.

"Curtis, you _dick!_"

Sadie's infuriated scream grabbed his attention just as he finished selecting the Eagles' _Seven Bridges Road_. He whirled, scanning the suddenly quiet crowd for the brunette's small frame, and, more importantly, the location of his brother.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Sadie continued.

_Where is Dean?_ Sam's heart cried out. The lack of his brother's commanding voice echoing Sadie's sentiments turned him cold and he began pushing through the crowd to get back to where he had been.

"Yer mine, Sadie," another voice slurred. "E'body knows that."

"Dean?" Sadie said, and Sam broke into a sprint, shoving two large bikers aside.

"Oh, shit," Sam breathed when he broke upon the scene. Dean lay on the ground, face-down, blood covering his right shoulder and neck. "Dean?"

Sam went to his knees next to his brother, avoiding what looked like broken glass and spilled beer, rolling him over carefully. "Oh, man," he breathed. He looked up at Sadie. "What happened?"

Sadie was crying, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. "Stupid asshole," she looked up at the stocky man weaving unsteadily above them. "Thinks I'm his freakin' girlfriend _which I'm not_!" She yelled up at Curtis. "Came at Dean with a bottle, broke it across his neck. Dean didn't even hear him coming."

"Dammit," Sam cursed himself. He pressed his hand against the cuts on the back of Dean's neck, staunching the warm spill of blood, trying not to move him too much. Patting his brother's cheek, he called his name, his heart climbing slowly up in his throat at the paleness of Dean's features.

"Wha—"

"Dean?"

"Aw, _God_," Dean groaned, his face fisting with pain. "What the hell…"

"Take it easy, man," Sam said, though Dean's eyes were closed. "You got some pretty bad cuts here."

"All I did was kiss the girl," Dean muttered weakly, blinking bleary eyes up at Sam. "Did… did she… _hit _me?"

"No!" Sadie exclaimed.

Sam shook his head, encompassing both Sadie and Dean with the motion. "Forget it. Let's get you out of here."

"You can't move him!" Sadie protested. "I'm going to call an ambulance."

"No!" Sam echoed her earlier vehemence. "I'll, uh, I got him. We know a doctor."

"Sam." Dean's voice was strained. "Feel… sick."

"Hang on, man," Sam whispered, gathering Dean up against his chest and bracing his feet. "Just hang in there." Dean was limp, almost dead weight in his arms.

Rising to an unsteady stance, his brother's blood staining his hand and running down his arm and Dean's back, Sam gripped his brother tightly and moved them forward, Dean's feet dragging sluggishly with every other step.

"Sam?" Sadie called back uncertainly.

"We'll be fine," he replied tightly as they stepped into the cool of the night.

"You _jerk_," Sam heard Sadie snarl at Curtis.

* * *

_Minnesota, 1994_

_"The beads represent the Trinity. You know what the Trinity is, Dean?"_

_I shrug, clueless. "Some witches coven?"_

_Pastor Jim closes his eyes briefly and I recognize the measured look of patience that Dad often gives to Sam. I frown. _

_"Don't make me guess," I say._

_"It's the Holy Trinity. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Three parts of one," Jim replies._

_"Huh," I say. "Like Dad, Sammy, and me."_

_Jim chuckles. "Yeah, kinda like that. These three beads represent three parts of a whole. All are needed to be complete; without one, the other two are weakened, or are forced to change in order to balance."_

_I nod, waiting. Stringing the beads into the dream catcher is the last step. And Dad is ready to leave. He doesn't know how to stop moving and we've made him wait long enough._

_"You got it?" Jim asks me._

_"I got it," I reply, tying the knots as he has shown me, breathing a silent hope for peace into the contraption. I wonder if I'll recognize peace. If I'll ever know if the dream catcher is working._

_"I'm gonna miss you boys," Jim says softly, his eyes lifting to the car and Dad checking the engine while Sam spins the end of a wrench around his fingers. They don't see us from where they're standing._

_"I know," I reply, not returning the sentiment. Not able to. It would betray Dad to admit that somewhere other than the road and the Impala could ever be home to me._

_"You're going to be okay, Dean," Jim says, giving in and letting his hand rest on my shoulder this time._

_"I know," I say, my lie so white it is almost see through._

www

Heat.

Shivers of heat slammed through him, shaking him against the bed, jarring him to a gasping awareness, light dancing at the corners of his eyes, limbs trembling, fingers searching.

A hand reached back, grasping his, anchoring him. A hand not Sam's. Dean felt strength and calluses where Sam's hands were smooth. He felt a ring. Sam didn't wear a ring. Dean tried to focus on whose touch was holding him in the _now_, keeping him present, but the heat… the heat threatened to swamp him, pulling him low with a tide of pain and triggering darkness to combat the light around his eyes.

He felt a cool rag on his face and groaned, leaning into it with closed eyes. The weight of the hand holding the rag on his forehead was heavier than Sam's. His brother knew how much pressure to apply to keep him still and offer him comfort. This hand just kept him still and he wanted to move, wanted to roll his neck, wanted to stop the pain in his head.

_Just stop. Just make it all stop_.

The hand gripping his squeezed and Dean opened his eyes again, this time concentrating on the blurred figure looming over him. A dark face, lines of concern framing a wide mouth, deep-set eyes focused intently on him. He smelled stale sweat and the unfamiliar odor of a stranger's breath.

"Mike?" Dean rasped. "Where's… Sam?"

He lacked the strength to read what Mike said back, and felt himself sink a bit into the bed, closing his eyes against the spinning world, searching for oblivion. The hand released his and he tried not to feel adrift. The bed jostled when Mike returned and Dean opened his eyes once more. A large pad of paper was held before his eyes. For a moment the words swam as he swallowed a groan, trying to focus, wanting _not_ to see what the paper said.

"Gone? Gone where?" Dean felt his voice climb up his chest and launch from his mouth as if his heart had turned to lava and was trying to escape. His neck and shoulder burned, a sharp, slicing pain that curled his lips inward.

_Sam left? When he was burning? When he was alone in a foreign world of silence?_

Mike wrote something else.

"What do you mean he's with Wren?" Dean snapped, trying in vain to sit up. Mike easily pushed him back down on the bed. Only then did Dean pick up the tang of Mike's skin, the spicy smell of alfalfa mixed with antiseptic. "Guh…" He groaned, trying to move away from the heat, the pain, unable to escape. "Son of a… what… happened?"

He was having trouble piecing together the last moments of consciousness. He remembered Sadie's lips, how she smelled of sugar and cinnamon. How soft she was and how he'd wanted to literally climb inside of her and hide right then.

He remembered Sam holding him, pain, and sickness. Pulling the Impala over to the side of the road as the world spun and his beer made a second appearance, leaving him spinning. He remembered Sam's hands on his back and at his side. He remembered Sam cradling him as he shook.

Mostly, though, he remembered heat.

Mike held up the paper. _You were cut in a bar fight and have a fever. I stitched you up and gave you meds._

"How long…?"

_About 32 hours._

"Dammit."

_You need to rest._

"I need Sam."

_Sam is fine—he's with Wren and George._

"You don't get it, man. He's _not_—" Dean gasped as he tried once more to sit up, only to be brought down once more, this time by his own body. "_FUCK."_

_You should be in a hospital, but Sam wouldn't let me take you._

"Damn straight," Dean forced out not caring how loud, not caring how rough, willing the heat to retreat, willing the pain to subside, willing his strength to be _enough_. "He…" Dean licked his lips, closing his eyes against the fire. "He needs to come back. Now."

_He's following a lead. Said you told him._

"Didn't tell him to go by himself," Dean snarled.

_Didn't have a choice._

Dean read the words, saw the shrug, looked away. Mike was right. He'd left Sam defenseless and alone. He'd succumbed to the weakness and allowed himself to be taken out of the game again. He's screwed up.

"Oh, man, I screwed up." He felt his failure like bonds tying his limbs to the bed, anchoring him in a sea of disappointment.

Mike caught Dean's eyes and shook his head. Dean looked away. "I screwed up…" he whispered again.

He had nothing left to fight. Sam was out there, fighting the goddamn good fight. Just like John. Just like he should be. And Dean lay still. Bleeding.

"You got more of those… those meds, man?"

Mike frowned, picking up the pad of paper again.

"No, don't…" Dean grabbed the strong wrist, pulling Mike's hand away from the paper. "Don't give me logic. Just… just make this fuckin' heat go away."

Mike watched him for a moment and Dean thought that he almost saw disenchantment in the gaze. He didn't care. His body burned, his neck was tight and swollen. His head had expanded to twice its normal size and he _hurt_. He hurt and he was useless to his brother without the benefit of his hearing. Sam was better off without him.

Mike moved away and in moments was back with a syringe. Dean felt a sharp sting in his arm and minutes later, darkness engulfed him.

He dreamt about an ocean. Standing on the edge, his pale, bare feet sinking slowly into the soft sand, water sucking at his ankles, pulling at the hairs on his legs, enticing him with coolness and promises of an eternal embrace. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of salt and fish and the complete absence of people.

The lonesome cry of a seagull grabbed his attention and he glanced skyward, watching the white-winged bird flit and soar on the wind gusts pushed up from the water. Before his eyes, the angelic white of the seagull began to turn a dull gray, the bird drifting lower as the color darkened. As the gray turned to black, Dean stepped from the surf, tugging his feet from the sucking pull of the tide and backing up on to the drier surface of the hard-packed sand.

The black bird landed next to him, looking up with yellow eyes, its head tilting to the right in a short, jerky motion.

"Spirits," it said.

"What?" Dean gasped, coming to complete awareness with the act of speaking.

He lay on the bed, panting, sweat slicking his face and plastering his shirt to the curves and planes of his chest. Looking down the length of his body, he realized he'd kicked free of the sheets and blankets that someone—presumably Sam—had taken care to tuck around him. His neck and shoulder throbbed with sickening consistency, but he no longer felt the debilitating heat that he remembered wrapping around him before.

"Sam?" he croaked, momentarily caught by how accustomed he was getting to _not_ hearing his own voice.

When no welcoming face immediately loomed over him, he cautiously rolled to his side, facing Sam's bed. Hissing from the burning pain that movement caused in the cuts on his neck, he pushed himself upright on shaking arms. Sam's bed was empty and unmarred by his brother's long-limbed thrashing in sleep.

"Mike?" Dean tried.

Though no sound greeted his tender ears, the room _felt_ empty. Devoid of human presence. Clearing his throat, Dean looked blearily around. The room was dark, not even starlight shining through the uncovered window.

_How long was I asleep?_ He swallowed, searching for any sign as to why he'd been left alone. His eyes fell to the pad of paper he remembered Mike using to communicate with him resting on the nightstand between the beds. Gingerly reaching over to turn on the wall-mounted lamps, he picked up the pad and looked at Mike's block-like scrawl.

_Went to pick up food. Sam hasn't called. Rest. Everything is okay._

"Okay, my ass," Dean growled, noting that Mike had had the presence of mind to write down the time he left. Glance at the clock, Dean realized that he'd been alone for all of fifteen minutes. Instinct told him the lack of companionship coupled with the absence of heat had triggered his self-preservation, bringing him around to taste the stale air and shiver in the unnatural coolness of the room.

"Sam hasn't called…" he muttered aloud. Flipping through the paper he reminded himself of the 'conversation.'

Sam was with Wren and George. Following up on a hunch.

"More than a hunch," Dean said, grunting as he stiffly rose to his feet, registering that he was still clad in jeans, a clean T-shirt covering the bandages on his neck and shoulder. He reached up carefully to finger the wounds, feeling along the puffed edges of skin exposed under the gauze bandages and medical tape. Shrugging his shoulder, he felt the stinging pull of the stitches Mike had used to pull his skin back together. Suddenly acutely aware of other uncomfortable areas, he shuffled his bare feet across the tightly-woven carpet to the bathroom.

As he moved, he tried to slowly process the fact that he was alone. He was wounded and alone. And his brother was out there, doing the job. The thoughts bounced off of each other as if neurons in his head were misfiring, connections unable to be made.

Without turning on the light, he took care of his bladder, grimacing at how slow and stilted his movements were, feeling the shivers of tight pain that radiated down his arm as he zipped his fly, and noticing that his fingers on his wounded arm weren't working quite right. As he moved past the mirror, his reflection caught his eyes.

"God," he muttered, peering closer. "Death warmed over..."

His eyes were hollow and shadowed with purple smudges, looking enormous in his thinned-out face. His skin was sallow, and held an almost waxy appearance. And his hair was no longer sticking up in spikes but was laying flat against his wounded head.

"At least my ears aren't bleeding," he said, watching his own mouth move in the mirror. His lips were full and almost too red for his face.

Turning from his garish appearance, he moved slowly across the room to the table bearing Sam's laptop.

"My gut is never wrong, Sammy," he said, sitting carefully, wounded arm tucked close to his body, and dropping the pad of paper next to the computer. "You should know that."

Staring at the monitor, watching the screen saver of family pictures Sam had loaded long ago swim across the screen, Dean took a breath. Two heartbeats after the phone picture of Sam asleep in the Impala with a plastic spoon in his mouth came a picture of John, ruefully glancing up at the camera, a reluctant smile on his face, creases around his eyes saying _you get away with this once; next time I kick your ass_.

He had to do something. He could barely breathe without the cuts on his neck poking back at him. Fighting might not be an option at the moment, but he'd be damned if he was going to sit back and _rest_ like a fucking invalid. He had to do _something_.

"_Enosis_," Dean whispered, reaching for the keyboard. "Let's see what your distress is, there, damsel."

As he struck the first key, the screen saver vanished and he realized that the last page Sam had searched was still up. It included facts about oleander poisoning. Dean's eyes drifted to the bottom of the page. Two paragraphs were devoted to oleander triggering heart attacks, being extremely deadly, but also tasteless, odorless, and that the powder made from its sap dissolved instantly in liquid.

"Sometimes I hate being right," he muttered.

Sam was out with George and Wren, either of whom could be killer or victim, though Dean's money was on Wren. A sour taste built in the back of his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. Searching through the last several sites Sam had researched jogged his memory of past discussions.

"Dammit, Dean," he cursed himself. "You're better than this." His memory had always been like flypaper, attracting facts with random obscurity and only needing the right combination of events to pull the information from the depths. But since the explosion, even his grip on that reality had shaken loose. "Get a hold of yourself."

He found the report of Camilla and George taking Wren Demeter in after her parents were killed, reading it over for any sign of hinkiness. The only thing off, it seemed, was that Wren's parents were not named.

"That could just be because the article is about George and Camilla," he argued with himself, playing both good cop and bad cop in Sam's absence.

Sighing, he typed in _enosis_. Several sites were returned to him, giving him the origin of the word, _Greek_, and the meaning of the word, _union_.

"Greek, huh?" Dean muttered, looking back at the tab with the report he'd browsed before. _Wren Demeter._ "Hell, it's Greek to me."

He typed in Wren's name, pulling up a Wikipedia site for Demeter that spoke of the Greek goddess of grain. Bored within minutes, Dean scrolled, thinking that it wasn't too much to hope for something to jump out at him and just plop the answer in his lap.

And then… it did.

"Whoa, wait," he muttered aloud, scrolling back up the web page.

…_According to __Ovid__ (__Metamorphoses__ V, 551), the sirens were the companions of young __Persephone__ and were given wings by __Demeter__ to search for Persephone when she was abducted._

"Oh, shit," he breathed, typing in the word 'siren.'

_In __Greek mythology__, the __**Sirens**__ (__Greek__ singular: Σειρήν __Seir__ḗ__n__; Greek plural: Σειρ__ῆ__νες __Seirênes__) were dangerous bird-women, portrayed as seductresses…_

"Dammit, Sam," Dean said, lifting his eyes to the door, having never felt more helpless in his life.

* * *

a/n: Thanks for reading! Hope you are enjoying the ride. Two more chapters and this journey's complete.

I started a Web site to house my stories—inclusive of zines and Virtual Season stories. It's still a bit of a work in progress as now it links back out to here or the VS site. Eventually, I'll have my stories posted there. Just gotta get the baby to keep taking naps. _Grin._

If you want to check it out, here 'tis (don't forget to take out the extra spaces): http : / / gaelicspirit74. googlepages. com/

Playlist:

_Got Me Wrong_ by Alice In Chains

_Seven Bridges Road_ by The Eagles (Best. Harmony. Ever.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1

a/n: Life teaches us daily lessons, doesn't it? My current lesson seems to be on how much one person can handle before cracking. But I'm still here! Take that, _Life_. Thanks to everyone for reading and sticking with me. You have no idea how much your comments brighten my day, no matter when they come through. And thanks, too, for your sweet comments concerning last chapter's author's note. _Covers heart with hand._

Kelly, thanks so much for watching out for me.

_music plays on…_

* * *

_One man's quiet is another man's din. _

_Carrie Latet_

www

He had been shaking.

Dean, who was always smooth, always in control, always with the confident outward appearance masking any fear or uncertainty, had been shaking. The cuts mended by Mike had been artfully covered by bandages, but the wounds breached the edges of the white, and the heat of his skin made it difficult to touch.

And Sam had left him.

Left him lying, eyes closed against reality, ears deaf to danger, body wounded and bleeding. Left him with a stranger.

_I __**had**__ to_.

Sam sat on the small couch in George and Wren's hotel room, elbows braced on knees, punishing his right fingers with the grip of his left hand. _I had to_, he repeated to himself. Dean was convinced that the _ala_ was back. That Wren was a killer. That the job that Sam had practically forced them into wasn't as simple as they'd first thought.

_Birds. Dead birds. Dozens of them. All over that room. Wren's room… And the ala… with the true form of a bird… what the hell are we dealing with here?_

"She'll be out in a minute," George said, suddenly appearing in the narrow doorway that separated the small living room area from one of the two bedroom suites. "Just needed to, uh, freshen up a bit."

Sam nodded, straightening up. He rubbed his sweaty palm on the top of his thigh, holding his bandaged hand close to his waist.

_Mike is a professional. Dean's gonna be okay. Pissed… but okay. Mike'll look after him better than I could…_ Sam's internal justification did nothing to ease the cinch around his heart or quiet the rolling of his stomach.

"Bit late to come calling," George commented, his wiry gray eyebrows lowering over his watery blue eyes, judgment spilling silently around his words.

"I know," Sam said, swallowing a smile at the sweetness of such an old-fashioned, and out-of-place, term. He glanced down at the tightly-woven red and beige carpet,

"But, I really need to talk with her."

"You don't have a gun on you, do you?" George gruffed, his lips quirking just enough to show Sam he was kidding.

"Yeah, uh, I'm sorry about that," Sam offered George an apologetic look. "I wish I could explain that better. Dean's just… not himself."

It was odd to think of his brother as…less. Broken. Not whole. But that was the direction Sam's thoughts strayed. To a place he didn't want to linger. A place that left him living this life—hunting, fighting, surviving—without Dean in front of him. Without Dean's eyes watching for the demons outside and inside of him.

George rubbed a hand across his lips. "Seems almost familiar in a way."

"How so?" Sam frowned.

George shook his head slowly, memory creeping into his eyes, drawing shadows on his face. "Camy, she… she wasn't acting like herself that day. Was anxious and… nervous. Kept telling me she wanted me alone to talk, but… I thought she was just… y'know, worried about Wren being at the picnic. In public…"

_Sam, the _ala_ is back… _Dean's words had been so certain. So _sure_. But Sam wasn't sure. He had no memory of an _ala_ before the cemetery a few days ago. He had only Dean's word that their father had fought one years before—that it's true form was that of a bird, and that _Wren_, of all people, could be involved.

"George, how did Wren come to live with you and Camilla?" Sam asked, watching the old man's face intently.

"She was at the state home," George said, going over old information. "Didn't really fit in there, they said."

"Who's they?"

George shrugged, his eyes clouded, confused, as if the details Sam was digging for were hidden too deep. "Um, you know. The… ones in charge."

George shifted, his aged hands trembling as they clenched. Sam felt pity stir in his heart. He was tempted to let George off the hook, quietly sit and wait for Wren, but there was something inside of him pushing for answers. Something not satisfied with seeing the Coopers as victims. Something that sounded an awful lot like his brother's voice.

_Someone planted oleander around the house, Sam…_

"Don't worry, George," Sam said softly. "I'll just talk to her. Figure some things out."

"You figure out the deal with that poem?" George looked away from Sam, his gaze seeming to penetrate the curtain-covered window.

Sam frowned, tilting his head a bit to the side in confusion. "Poem?"

"The spirits and veils thing," George moved slowly from the doorway and lowered himself into the diminutive armchair across from Sam. "It's a poem."

"I, uh… didn't realize," Sam quietly chided himself. It hadn't even occurred to him to look up the words he _and_ Dean had heard. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his fingers roughly across his forehead. "You know which poem?" He asked, hearing the rough tang in his voice that betrayed his weariness.

"Not sure, actually," George said. "I remember the writer was something… Crutch? Cran?"

"Cranch," came Wren's soft voice from the doorway. "Christopher Pearce Cranch."

Sam stood as she slid around the edge of the doorway, her fingers playing along the wall to feel her way forward.

"It was… a favorite of… someone I was close to," Wren continued, her voice catching.

Sam blinked. "I, uh… I thought George said you didn't—"

"She said it came to her when we got back from the house," George interrupted. "That business with your brother and his damned gun… scared it out of her, I guess."

Wren simply nodded, seeming to take them both in with a sigh, her empty, luminous eyes burning an odd light in the dimly lit room.

"Thanks for talking with me so late," Sam said, watching her glide forward, her movements so quiet it was as if she were more ethereal than human.

Wren lifted a shoulder. "I'm happy to do it. Is your brother okay?"

Sam glanced at George, then back to Wren. "He's… been better."

"You two don't stay out long," George huffed, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm too old to be watching the clock."

Wren put out a hand, waiting for George to catch it. "Thank you, George," she said softly, tipping her cheek for an expected kiss. George complied, nodding at Sam, then retreated to his room, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.

They were alone. But Sam _felt_ George listening. Something about his proximity made Sam feel off balance, protective… jealous.

"Want to, uh… take a walk or something?"

Wren smiled, looking in the area of his throat, her vacant eyes following the sound of his voice. "I'd love to."

She reached out a hand, and Sam instinctively took it, feeling the intoxicating softness of her skin, the warmth of her fingers trailing across his palm, up the inside of his wrist, resting on the curve of his forearm, flexing over the muscle there.

For one insane moment he wanted nothing more than to seek out more of her skin, bury himself in the warmth of her flesh, listen to the catch in her voice as she said his name.

"Sam?"

Sam shivered, physically shaking himself free of the freakish hold of desire.

"Yeah."

"You okay?" Wren asked. "You felt… like you went somewhere else for a minute there."

_God, don't guess, don't guess…_

"I'm okay," he said, trying to concentrate, feeling a vague fog seeping through the corners of his focus. "Just, uh, worried about Dean."

Wren's mouth formed a perfect bow of sadness as she frowned, nodding slightly. "He seems to be in a lot of pain," she sighed. "And I don't mean just from the explosion."

Sam led her to the door, escorting her through with a hand on the small of her back, then letting her take his arm once more as he closed the door behind them. They walked quietly out of the hotel, letting the silence say more than unfilled words. Sam's thoughts tripped over reason, Dean's desperate voice hammering against his ears. _She's not right…_

"Where do you want to go?" Wren asked when the night settled around them.

"Doesn't matter," Sam said looking around the nearly-empty parking lot, eyes catching on signs at the entrance to the hotel. "Slaughter Beach isn't far."

Wren smiled slightly. "What a terrible name for such a beautiful place."

Sam moved forward, the light from the half-moon illuminating the sidewalk that stretched from the hotel parking lot, along the slip of road, to the rock-strewn path that led to the beach.

"Beautiful?"

"I remember," Wren said, her voice sad. "I remember the sea."

Sam swallowed. "You, uh… think you'll ever see again?"

Wren shifted against him, her fingers tightening. Sam felt his skin quake, pulling away and reaching out at the same time. He hadn't felt this aroused since… Jessica. He glanced down at Wren's porcelain skin glowing in the moonlight, her eyes half-mast, her mouth bowed in memory.

He was hungry for her. And he had no idea what to do with that. Or where it came from.

"I don't know, Sam," she was saying. He tried to track back to what he'd asked her. "I don't know that I want to see this world again. Not after…"

Sam cleared his throat, guiding her from the sidewalk to the rock-strewn path, letting his hand linger on the base of her spine. He could smell the ocean: salt, fish, wet sand.

"Do you remember the accident?"

"I remember… a different life. I remember feeling whole." She shuddered slightly. "And then… I remember pain and screams."

"But not what happened?"

"I dream about it. I see it then. Clearly." She swallowed convulsively. "I see bodies. I see blood… so… so much blood. It… they hurt, the memories."

Sam nodded in sympathy, the pain of his visions very real even days after they'd passed.

"It's almost as though I can see too much when I dream. But…then…" She lifted a shoulder. "Then I find peace in darkness."

Sam heard the steady breathing of the ocean as the tide climbed the earth, reaching keen fingers further inland, looking to conquer. Instinctively, he lifted Wren at the waist, enjoying the feel of her small hands gripping his wrists, and set her up on one of the larger boulders.

Looking to his left, he saw stringy tendrils of pumpkin-colored seaweed shimmy as the salty water teased it with the illusion of motion. It wrapped around the base of the grayish boulders, clouding the water. Beyond that, he could only see the silver path of the moonlight on the black water and the lacy edges of the waves as the water curled back in on itself.

"It has no memory, you know," Wren said softly, sliding her hands up Sam's arms to rest on his shoulders. Her face was turned from his, in the direction of the water.

"What doesn't?"

"The sea," she said, her voice drawing him in, making him want to rest his forehead on her chest, nuzzle close to her throat and breathe her in. "It simply is. It breathes, taking what it wants to, seducing, captivating, capturing, but the moment the conquest is over… it forgets."

"Yeah?" Sam asked lazily, reaching up to twist one of her short wisps of black hair around his index finger. The motion reminded him of something… Something he was supposed to be doing…

Somewhere he was supposed to be…

He tried to grab the memory, but words seemed to fall from his mind the moment they surfaced. Almost as if he could watch them vanish. Words like _brother, hunt, ghost_… words like _solve, pain, fight, protect_… words like _blood_ and _fever_.

He sighed into the night, letting the peace and coolness of the salty ocean air settle into his skin, letting everything that had wound him so tight simply drift away with the forgotten words. Letting the amnesia of the ocean sift through him as comforting as Wren's touch.

Wren moved her right hand from his shoulder to his neck, her palm soft and warm. Sam stepped closer to the boulder, her height now even with his. She turned back to him and he registered that there was something about her eyes… something unusual about the way she was looking at him.

"Sam," she whispered, her lips parting ever-so-slightly as his name tumbled free. "I never wanted to hurt anyone."

"I know," he replied, his eyes on her mouth. Watching it move, absorbing the sound that seemed to blend with the breath of the ocean.

"I so hate to be alone."

Her sorrow ate at him, made him want to wrap around her, protect her, own her. Keep her with him so neither of them would ever be alone.

"Me, too," he confessed, his voice catching on something that tasted like truth.

"Are you alone, Sam?"

More words surfaced, bold and black in his mind. Like projected light on a movie screen, they tried to burn into him, draw him back from the peace her darkness offered. _Family… brother… Dean…_Dean… _Dean…_

He leaned close, her breath soft on his face. His eyes fluttered closed; the night pressed close, as if there were hands at his back, encouraging him closer to her. Her hands slipped up his neck to cup his jaw, her thumbs skipping along the time-rough stubble on his cheeks.

What had she asked him? Was he alone? _Wasn't everybody?_

He felt the silky caress of her lips as they glided across his. Odd, unsettling flashes, like a strobe light in his brain, hit the backs of his eyes. Smiling blue eyes, long blonde hair, innocence shattered by hidden truth. Sharp green eyes asking nothing, giving all… waiting, knowing.

"Wait, I—"

She swallowed his protest as her fingers threaded through the thick tangle of hair at the back of his head, pulling his mouth onto hers, crushing his lips close. He sucked air in through his nose, slipping his hands around her, feeling her legs close around his waist. Her tongue stroked the back of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, erasing his resisting and leaving pieces of him behind.

www

Dean paced.

He wasn't sure when he'd picked up this habit, but now, movement was the only method he had to combat the fog his taxed system worked to wrap around him. The only way to channel the scream that rolled from his belly through his heart into something productive and not simply primal.

He'd taken Sam to a zoo once, when he was eight and impossible to entertain in the confines of a motel room. Slipped in with the maintenance crew to avoid the entry fee. Kept his little brother occupied for several hours wandering around. Sam had been captivated by everything, but Dean had been haunted by one sight. The Siberian tiger pacing behind the bars that were secured in place to both protect the world from it, and it from the world.

The muscles under that sleek colored coat had rippled as the large animal watched them through sullen yellow eyes, its black lips pulled up in the slightest hint of a snarl, as if showing its disdain for those with the audacity to think they could hold it captive forever. Dean had been rooted to the spot, oblivious to Sam's tugs on his clothes or insistence that they see something else. He'd stared at that pacing animal, felt his stomach tighten with recognition and his heart recoil with denial.

He'd seen his future in that cage and to this day could only emulate it, no matter how badly he wanted to resist. The heat in his shoulder and at the back of his neck was nothing compared to the heat in his heart, climbing his throat to rest with wiggling satisfaction behind his eyes. He'd been wrong about something.

About something _vitally_ important.

The _ala_ had nothing to do with this. It was a mistaken memory, an imprint of a vanquished foe, the only connection his fractured mind had been able to make between the void of _before_ and the reality of _now_.

Talons, wings, feathers, the sharp yellow eye of pitiless death. It hadn't been the _ala_ as he'd told Sam. As he'd been _so sure_…

"A fuckin' _siren_," Dean spat out on stride six as he continued his soon-to-be worn path across the hotel room. He turned when he reached count eight and headed on increasingly unsteady legs back toward the laptop.

The screen saver had not yet taken over and waiting for him was the last bit of information he'd pulled up about the enemy they were apparently facing. Sirens were not the thing of myth and history as he'd thought. They were as real as vampires. As real as spirits. As real as he was. They were immortal, endless, drawn back through time to the era of pagan gods.

They wanted nothing more than companionship at the price of a human soul. They knew only need, and were nearly impossible to satiate. They didn't bow to convention, or hold to any truths save desire; if they decided that they wanted someone, they manipulated their environment to win.

The siren's song destroys will, defeats reason, and crushes hearts. Those who hear the true voice of the siren will cry tears of blood before their life is stolen. And the only way to defeat the siren was to return them to the sea.

"How the hell are we gonna do _that_?"

The words on the monitor mocked him, swimming, letters mixing and blending as the room tunneled in front of him, sweat breaking out on his upper lip, the back of his neck, his forehead.

"No!" He barked into the empty room. "No, I can do this… I _can_ do this."

He gripped the back of the chair placed before the laptop until his knuckles turned white. Sam was with a siren. He was _not_ going to pass out now. Not when his brother needed him. His shoulder burned and he felt his stomach cave as he gave in to the quick release of a moan. He was so fucking _tired_ of his body betraying him.

The motion of the door opening into the room, shifting the line of salt he'd taken for granted, caught his eye and Dean straightened. Too suddenly. He was on his knees before he registered the change in elevation, his vision graying out, heat wrapping around him with a chaser of cold chills.

Dean blinked, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he worked to banish the haze overtaking his vision. Mike's face surfaced through the fog, his lips moving, dark eyes worried as his sure hands seemed to move over Dean like a wraith. He instantly registered the tangy scent of Mike's warm skin.

"Ge'off me, man," Dean slurred, pushing Mike's hand from his face with a clumsy swipe. "What the hell?"

It took him a moment to register that he was flat on his back, on the floor, that the collar of his T-shirt had been torn, and that Mike was doing something with the wounds on his shoulder. Mike spoke again, lines folding around his mouth and sketching darts between his brows.

Dean blinked. It didn't take him long to realize that Mike was asking him a question.

"I'm fine," Dean spat out. "Quit messin'."

Mike shook his head once, trying to keep Dean on the floor.

"I said I was _fine_," Dean roughly pushed Mike away, rolling carefully to his side, swiping out blindly again when he felt the weight and warmth of Mike's hand on his side. "Get. Back."

Mike frowned, his brows meeting and shadowing his eyes, drawing lines through his face that gave him an air of danger. Still working to at least get to his knees, hating the helpless feeling of being down while an almost-stranger loomed over him, Dean glared back.

"Dude, don't even try," he said, feeling the weakness in his voice as the air crept through his throat. "In the poker game of attitude, I will win every time."

Mike rocked back on his heels, a muscle jumping in jaw, his hand still resting on Dean's arm. Dean pushed harder against the hand extended in help and resulting in restraint. He felt the sigh that slipped between Mike's lips as the older man backed away, leaving Dean to his own devices as he tried to get to his feet.

Fisting his fingers in the bed covers, Dean gritted his teeth, using the bed as leverage to pull himself to his knees, ignoring the feel of Mike's eyes, the tremble in his own limbs, the sweat on his brow, and focusing instead on the new sound thundering through him as he moved.

He could hear his heart beating.

_It's about freakin' time…_

Lips parted, Dean drew in breath in a quaking, shuddering gasp, hearing it echo slightly at the back of his mouth before tumbling down his airway to fill his lungs. His head felt hollow, his body gutted, but he could hear his heart. He could hear his breath.

_I can do this_… he coached himself as he pressed his hands on the edge of the bed, rising slowly to his feet. _I __**will**__ do this._

Swallowing, moving carefully, afraid to shake the sound of life away, he turned to face the glowering Mike, belatedly realizing that another figure hovered in the doorway, arms wrapped around her body. Dean tracked the form of the jean-clad legs, to the darkly painted nails adorning trembling, tanned hands, past breasts that were shaped for touching, to a throat that flashed as she breathed.

"Sadie," he acknowledged, his eyes lingering a moment on her lips before meeting her, large, worried eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He could smell the sweet, cinnamon scent that seemed to tiptoe from her and drift through the stale hotel room air to tease his mouth dry. She darted her tongue out in what he now recognized as a nervous gesture and wetted her bottom lip. Her mouth trembled up in a hesitant smile, and he saw her eyes dart to Mike for reassurance.

Dean felt his lip curl. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been kissing her. He imagined in a town where everyone knew everything about everybody, she simply wanted an update. He looked at Mike, too, aware that he owed the man a debt of gratitude, and hating both that he was compelled to thank him and that he still needed him.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked, wondering what it was in his voice that caused Mike's lips to tighten.

Mike looked back toward Sadie, and Dean rested his leg against the end of the bed, pulling the destroyed cotton of his T-shirt closer together when he felt Sadie's eyes drop from Mike's face to his chest. He saw her eyes catch on his scars, the history of his life, and had the urge to hide the evidence of his fight.

Sadie blinked, her lips moving, her eyes softening as she skipped them from his exposed chest to his face. Mike was still turned from him and Dean watched Sadie look at him, shaking her head forcefully, negating something he was saying. It was like watching an argument through binoculars. He could see the battle of wills, but was living in a muted world. Watching them talk, Sam nowhere around to help bridge the gap of understanding, was a suffocating feeling. He started to sympathize with Camilla Cooper rolling over in her grave, wanting to turn away from the hope of escape when the reality was, there was no way out.

Mike turned back to Dean, his face a dark cloud of frustration. Hands waving at his sides in an attempt to convey whatever he was saying, Mike stepped forward. Dean felt his muscles tighten as he resisted the urge to back away.

"HEY!" Dean pushed out, hoping it was as loud as it felt. "Just… just stop, okay? I don't know what you're trying to tell me, but… it doesn't matter."

Sadie stepped forward, hand reaching out, lips pursed in a _shushing_ motion. Mike turned to her, catching her arm, stopping her from approaching Dean. Growling with a dismissive wave of his hand, Dean turned his back to the duo, shrugging carefully out of his tattered T-shirt and grabbing a gray Henley from his duffel.

He hissed slightly as he pulled the shirt over his head, crinkling the stitched cuts at the top of his shoulder. He had no memory of the person who'd hit him, no memory of being hit. He remembered only Sadie's lips, blinding pain, then Sam.

_Sam…_

He didn't know how long his brother had been with Wren, if he'd come to the same conclusion Dean had, if he were safe… Dean shook his head, adjusting the edge of the shirt over his waistband. He'd know if something had happened to Sam. He'd _know_.

Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, his back to the rest of the room, Dean leaned over and pulled on his boots, slipping the small throwing knife he was never without into the homemade sheath on the inside of his left boot. He straightened slowly, hating the rough slosh of fluid in his ears as he lifted his head, but relishing the harsh slam of his heart against the back of his eyes. It hurt, but he _heard_ it.

A gentle hand skimmed across his lower back, causing him to flinch, stand, and turn. Sadie stood behind him, her expression open, waiting.

"I have to find my brother," he said to her. "He's in trouble."

Dean looked up at Mike. "You can believe what you want," he said, noting the exasperation in Mike's expression. "But it's the truth."

He turned the monitor of the laptop toward Mike, watching the man's dark eyes skim across the information about the siren, his expression growing more concerned as he read. When he'd reached the bottom of the screen, Mike looked up, slowly shaking his head in disbelief.

"He's in trouble, man," Dean repeated, feeling the world swim as he found himself uttering words he hadn't said in a long time. Not since Kathleen and the Benders. Not since he'd been brought back from the brink of death for the sole purpose of saving his brother. "Help me. Help me save my brother."

Mike ran a hand over his face, looking at Sadie. She shifted her eyes from Dean, to Mike, clearly not following the significance of the conversation. Mike spoke to her and Dean ached to understand, to follow, to have some way of connecting to them aside from the smell of their skin.

Sadie nodded in agreement to whatever Mike asked her, then stepped in front of Dean.

_Take care of you,_ he saw as she placed her hands on either side of his battered face, drawing his attention to her full mouth. With that, she pushed up on her toes, brushed her soft, warm lips across his, slid her face on a pillow of breath to the base of his neck and kissed the edge of the bandage there.

Drawing back she said, _I'm so sorry_.

Then she turned from him, nodded to Mike, and stepped from the room. For a brief moment, Dean was sorry to see her go. As quickly as that thought struck, another took its place.

_Sam_.

"You know where he is?" Dean asked, grabbing the room key from the table and following Mike from the room.

Mike shook his head and pointed to the door down the hall. Dean nodded, ignoring the heat, the pull of the cuts on his shoulder, the burn of his skin. He swallowed hard, combating the pressure building steadily behind his eyes with the force of his own will.

_I __**will**__ do this._

Mike knocked on the door, head hanging low, face sad. Dean watched him for reaction from the room within, feeling pity stir as the knowledge that the innocent his friends had been harboring was nothing short of a demon. That she was probably responsible for the death of George's wife, Mike's friend, the reason their lives had been turned sideways.

Mike frowned and knocked again. Sighing, Dean stepped back, fully prepared to kick the door in. As he did so, however, a thought struck him. As Mike pounded a third time on the door, Dean looked at the key in his hand, running his calloused thumb over the number printed on the plastic scabbard. Glancing up at the door he huffed out a slightly bemused laugh.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Mike looked at him, and Dean placed his fingers at the top of Mike's shoulder, easing him back.

"Allow me," he said smoothly, sliding the teeth of the brass key into the lock, and feeling the satisfying click as the lock opened.

Stepping into the room, Dean was almost overwhelmed with the various scents of the people who had existed within. The peppermint smell of joint rub warred with the burnt aroma of old coffee and underneath it all rolled a quiet scent of flowers. Lilies, he thought. Or… something close to it.

"Where is everyone?" Dean wondered aloud, moving carefully through the room, eyes scanning, absorbing, cataloging.

He felt Mike brush past him, moving into the rooms. Following, Dean glanced around what was obviously George's room, noting, with a pang of sadness he'd never cop to, a picture of a young, smiling Camilla in a gilded frame on the stand next to George's bed. Turning, he crossed the narrow hall and stepped into the adjacent bedroom.

Wren's room.

He swayed in reaction to the almost non-existent feel of the girl who was supposed to be living here. Not a trace of scent, no scattered make-up, no sign of clothes tossed on the bed. Dean had been around enough women in his lifetime to know that even the most meticulous of them left traces of their existence behind.

Moving toward the bed, his eyes caught on something glinting in the faint light. Bending down carefully, Dean picked up a small silver locket from where it had snagged on the hem of the bedspread. Engraved on the round face was the wing of a bird.

Dean felt cold. Snapping the tiny clasp open, he saw that the locket was empty, except for an inscription.

…_we are spirits clad in veils…_

"What the hell?"

Turning, he sought Mike, intent on showing him what he'd discovered. He saw the older man was standing in the space between the rooms, a cell phone pressed to his ear, his free hand rubbing his face in a distracted, worried fashion. Dean tilted his head, trying to catch the motion of the man's lips, but unable to do so.

He stepped toward him, catching Mike's eye and watching as he flipped the phone shut and motioned toward the living room. Dean followed, aware of the pressure behind his eyes increasing, the tattoo of his heartbeat loud in his hollow ears.

Mike searched the room quickly, coming around with a small pad of paper and a stub of a pencil that looked like something left over from a golf course. He began scrawling a message as Dean impatiently wiped away the sweat gathering on his upper lip. Colors seemed to intensify, sharpening to an unrealistic quality, looking almost psychedelic as they swirled and morphed around Mike's bent head.

Turning the pad around, Mike held it up, his eyes scanning Dean's swaying form carefully. Dean ignored him, reading the note.

_George gone. Found Sam. At beach with Wren. Coming back. Stay here._

"Wait…" Dean swallowed, blinking wide to help refocus his eyes. "Where are you going?"

He rubbed at his pounding head as Mike scribbled something else.

_Get you more meds._

"I'm fine," Dean insisted. "Sam's coming here? How do you know? Were you just talking to him?"

When Mike nodded, Dean felt his heart turn to ice. He'd known envy before—envy of John's affection with Sam. Envy of another way of life echoing in the smiles of someone he thought he could care about, if given the chance. Envy of peace. But this affirmation that someone else—someone capable—had found his brother hit him like a punch to the gut and chilled him from the inside out.

_Do the job, man. Focus on the job. There is nothing else._

"He's, uh… with… with Wren?" Dean reached back and rubbed carefully at his neck. _God_ he hurt. He was so ready to just be done with this hunt. To just go home, sit behind the wheel of the Impala and feel the rumble of his baby slide through him.

Mike nodded again, then reached out and pushed Dean back onto the couch. Dean dropped heavily, unable to force his legs to hold him upright. He blinked again, willing the earth to slow, willing Mike to stop breaking into two figures, willing the fucking heat in his head to just back the hell off already.

Crouching in front of Dean, Mike rested his forearms on his knees, his hands hanging loose between his legs. Dean watched the rodeo healer watching him and waited. He wanted to fight him, pushing back, resist the care he saw evident on the man's dark face, but he couldn't. His brother needed _Mike_ right now. Not someone who couldn't even stay on his feet. Not someone who couldn't hear danger coming past the sound of his own heartbeat.

Taking Dean's wrist between his stocky fingers, Mike pressed the pad of his index finger against Dean's pulse. With a quick check of his watch, Mike shook his head slowly, then lifted his hand towards Dean's face.

Dean smacked him away. "Stop, man. Seriously. I'm _fine_."

Mike pushed to his feet and Dean caught the familiar words of _stubborn ass_ on the man's lips before he turned away and grabbed the pad of paper again.

Mike held up the pad of paper and tapped his fingers at the words _stay here_.

"Just until… until Sam gets here…" Dean whispered, dropping his head back, and reluctantly retreating to the corner of safety inside where the beat of his heart kept him company.

* * *

_The road, 1994_

_"Get some sleep, Son."_

_"Not really tired," I say, looking over my shoulder to Sam sprawled across the back seat, his legs bent at a crazy angle to fit comfortably. Pretty soon he's not going to be able to fit there anymore._

_"You're half asleep now," Dad comments and I hear amusement in his voice._

_Instead of complying, I look at his profile. "How close did you get this time?"_

_I don't know what it is that he is hunting. But it's something. Something scary. Something he won't let us help him with. And I know that thing is why he left us. Again. Dad darts a glance my way, his fingers tightening on the wheel until I imagine he leaves imprints on the metal. I have often thought of fitting my fingers in the grooves he left behind, wondering if my hands will fit his._

_Looking back at the road, Dad said on a growl, "Close enough to smell the sulfur." _

_"You think we'll ever get it?"_

_"I know we will."_

_It's quiet in the car once more, the radio humming static as we drive through a dead zone. I think of so many things I want to ask him. I think of so many things to say. I can't bring my mouth to release one of them. It's as if there is a giant canyon inside of me with truth at the bottom and Dad on the other side, and I want to cross to him, bringing honesty with me, but it's just so far down…_

_I begin to sweat. There is a knot in my neck that I ache to rub out, but refuse to give myself away. Dad will see. Dad will know._

_"Dean."_

_"Yes, sir?"_

_"I know what you saw… that day."_

_The sweat trickles down the sides of my face. I stay silent, waiting._

_"I know you saw it."_

_"I'm not the only one," I whisper._

_"It was just a spirit, Dean. Just like any other."_

_No, it wasn't. It had wings under water. It had talons. It was reaching for Sam._

_"You can't be afraid of these things, Dean," Dad says, sighing like he's reluctant to tell me something I should already know. "You have to be strong."_

_"I know."_

_"You know we're better than these things. You know they can't get us."_

_I don't know that. I don't know why he's telling me this, either. I hear Pastor Jim's words in my head, telling me that it's okay to need someone. It's okay to ask for help. I look over at Dad and see strength battle weariness in the lines on his face. I see him dart his eyes to me quickly, checking to make sure I am getting his point. His point that we can't ever be weak. That we can't ever let them see our fear._

_But fear is all around me. Fear for Sam, fear for Dad. Fear that one step left when we should have stepped right will bleed us out. They __**can**__ get us. And the fact that Dad won't admit that… scares the hell out of me._

_"Dean?"_

_"I know, Sir."_

_"Good. Remind Sammy. When you give him the dream catcher."_

_"You know about that?" I ask, surprised._

_Dad grins softly, and for a moment I see the man that used to tuck me in at night, ruffling my tangled hair and calling me his boy. _

_"Of course I know," he says. "I'm your Dad. I know everything."_

Not everything_, I want to say. _You don't know what it's like to be me_. _

_"I'll tell him," I promise, glancing once more back at Sam. I'll tell him that the ala was dead, that Dad saved us just like he always would. The bad things couldn't get Dad, and we wouldn't let them get us. That as long as I was around, nothing bad was going to happen to him. I would __**make**__ him believe it._

_Because, with Sam, I had purpose. I had a reason to keep the bad things away._

_Dad turns up the radio as the music filters back in and I lean on the cool glass of the window, looking out into the night, suddenly missing the feel of the soft flannel sheets and the comfort of a place I called _home_ for a short time._

* * *

Bells.

He heard the soft tone of bells chiming through his hazy senses as Wren's mouth captured his again and again with heat and need and the dizzy sensations of release. It took him a moment, but the rhythm of the bells was suddenly familiar enough to break him from her.

Wren whimpered as Sam drew back, panting, his lips vibrating from her touch.

His cell… it was the ringtone from his cell phone.

"H-Hello?"

"_Sam? Mike. Where are you?"_

"At, uh…" Sam looked around, feeling as though he were waking from a dream. The rush of the ocean hit him with a grounding burst of reality. "I'm at the… the beach."

_"What the hell are you doing there?"_

"I'm…" Sam looked back at the slim figure of the dark-haired girl perched on the boulder, her lips puffy and red from his kiss, her eyes staring bleakly toward the sound of the water. "I'm with Wren."

_"You need to get her somewhere safe and get back here."_

"What?" Sam was suddenly focused. The strain in Mike's voice was more than obvious. His gut clenched. "What's wrong? Is Dean okay?"

_"He's been better. Look, he is convinced that Wren's some kind of… mythical creature and that you're in trouble. He's hurt enough right now that he's not going anywhere fast, but you know him better than me…"_

"Shit," Sam turned his back on Wren, feeling suddenly free. He pulled in a deep breath, rubbing his forehead in thought. "Okay, I'll bring Wren back. Stay with Dean."

_"He needs more pain meds and antibiotics. His shoulder is inflamed."_

"I won't be long." Sam dropped his hand and barked into the phone. "You stay with him."

_"Listen, kid, you guys know what you know, and I know what I know. You guys do your ghost hunters thing, I'm gonna make sure your brother doesn't keel over on me."_

"Wait, Mike!"

But the line had gone dead.

"Dammit." Sam turned back to Wren. Dean thought Wren was a mythical creature? He'd said he thought the _ala_ was back… The true form of the _ala _was a bird… Sam shook his head. Dean was wrong. He simply was.

Wren might not be telling the whole truth, but Sam refused to believe that she was a Serbian storm demon in disguise. She was too… human… for that.

"We have to go back," Sam said, taking Wren's arm gently and pulling her attention back to him from the ocean.

"Back?" She asked, her voice dipping with reluctance. "But… I don't want to leave…"

"I can't let you stay here alone," Sam said. "And my brother needs help."

"I remember the sea," Wren said softly. "There's no screaming in the sea…"

Sam frowned. Her face had a wistful, longing expression. Sadness like sandpaper wore down the edges of her luminous eyes and Sam felt it seep into him.

"Listen, I'm sorry," he rubbed gently at her arm, raising goose bumps on her skin with his touch. "I am, but… my brother… he needs me."

"You're not alone," she said, her mouth hardening. "You said you knew—"

"I said I hated to be alone," he corrected her. _Dean would never leave me… not like I've left him. I never have to be alone._

"I'll be fine," she said, her voice matching her mouth. "Just go."

"Wren, I'm not—"

"I said go!"

"I got her," came a soft, time-worn voice from behind Sam.

He turned quickly to see George emerge from the halo of the streetlight, lumbering up to them, his eyes on Wren.

"I'm here, honey," he said to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and allowing her to lean close. "You can go now, Sam."

"George? How did you—"

"Wasn't gonna let her out of my sight too long," George pressed his lips tight, stamping out expression. "Lost too many things in my life because I wasn't watching."

Sam took a breath, feeling lost, feeling as though he'd failed something he didn't even know he'd been tested on. Backing away, he felt the lure of her peace decreasing with each step.

He turned from the pair, hearing Wren's melodic voice bemoan, "I thought he knew."

"It's okay, honey," George comforted her. "I know. You're not alone anymore."

"Don't leave me, George."

"I won't, baby girl."

Sam broke into a run, needing to get back to his normal. Needing to get back to Dean. Needing a solution to this hunt gone wrong, this odd twist of reality. He was so wrapped up in his tangled thoughts that the truck was almost upon him before both skidded to a halt.

Sam reached out a trembling hand and rested it on the Ford emblem inches away from his body.

"Are you crazy, man? I almost hit you!"

Mike slammed out of his truck, stalking around the front and shoved his finger into Sam's chest.

"What do you think you're doing out here in the middle of the—"

"I was trying to get back to Dean!" Sam yelled, smacking Mike's finger away. "George has Wren, and I was trying to get back—"

"Wait, George? George is out here?"

"Back at the beach," Sam said, indicating over his shoulder.

Mike rubbed his close-cropped hair and huffed out an exasperated sigh. "You know I wasn't even supposed to be working that night?" He muttered, staring at the ground. "I picked up a shift for a friend so she could go to her kid's recital. And ever since I met you and your brother, my life has been… ghosts and graves and dead birds and sirens."

"Wait, what?" Sam grabbed Mike's sleeve.

Mike turned from Sam, heading back into the truck. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride."

Sam swung into the truck, slamming the door behind him. "What's this about sirens?"

Mike started the big diesel engine, turning down the radio. "Your brother showed me some stuff he had on his computer about sirens."

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, the realization that Dean had stumbled across the true root of their supernatural problem staggering him.

"Yeah! I mean, seriously… ghost… _maybe_, but this is like, something out of… Homer."

"Exactly," Sam breathed. "_Exactly…_ oh, _shit_!"

"What?" Mike turned toward the pharmacy.

"Her voice, man. She… she seduces with her voice… she… she _kills_ with it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Mike shut off the engine, staring at Sam, incredulous.

"It's Wren," Sam looked at Mike, mouth dry, skin pulling close in horror. "Dean knew… he _knew_ that she wasn't right and I didn't pay attention to him. I didn't believe him." He pounded a fist on the dash of the truck. "Dammit!"

"Hey!" Mike protested. "Ease up on the truck, dude!"

"We gotta get back to him," Sam reached for the keys.

"Just… hey! Just hang the fuck on!" Mike yelled at Sam, grabbing the keys back. "Greek myth or no Greek myth, your brother's not gonna be good to anyone without these meds. You asked for my help, so just sit on your hands for a minute while I give it to you!"

Sam clicked his mouth shut, watching helplessly as Mike exited the truck and loped into the pharmacy.

_Hang on, Dean…_

www

He traced the lines of his gun from memory.

He wasn't quite asleep, wasn't quite awake. Drifting in the gray world of fevered reality, Dean sought something he knew, one thing that didn't need him to hear it to work, to respond, to obey, to protect. His weapon. He mentally stroked its barrel, running the pads of his fingers down the grip and rubbing the etching with his thumb.

When he felt the soft touch of lips, his first thought was that Sadie had returned. He could still taste her kiss goodbye. Her lips were the last things that had touched him before fire exploded behind his eyes. Her skin had been soft, warm, inviting. He'd wanted more of it, wanted to touch, to savor.

He responded by leaning into the caress, letting the tongue slide into his pliant mouth and pulling the wet warmth close, letting the touch stir feelings of conquest and need. He instinctively reached forward, wanting the touch of skin, wanting the escape, wanting the ecstasy.

Breathing in, he froze. He couldn't smell cinnamon. He couldn't smell _anything_.

His eyes flew open, and he tried to draw back, but hands held him fast, pressing him against the couch. Soft fingers skimmed his jaw, and Dean growled low in his throat, trying to pull his lips away from those touching him, resisting the kiss.

Too close to focus, Wren's suddenly clear blue eyes met his in a blurred reality and her lips spread in a feral smile of achievement. She spoke, but was too close for him to even attempt to read her lips.

"You can't kill me, you freak," Dean spat, jerking against the restraining hands. He suddenly realized that he wasn't alone in the room with Wren. There were too many hands on him. Too many grips keeping him in place. "You won't win."

Wren blinked slowly, her eyes almost drowsy with desire. With a sudden rush of motion, she straightened and Dean's head was pulled roughly back by the hair. He groaned as the cuts on his neck protested and reached up to claw at the hands restraining him. Wren spread her arms, the expression on her face victorious.

"Don't… don't know what you're so fuckin' happy about…" Dean managed. "You can't sing to a deaf man."

Wren dropped her gaze and Dean watched her smile in triumph. Before his horrified eyes, her fingers spread, nails curling and hardening into talons, hands softening and blurring until feathers coated her from fingertips to shoulders, body rippling and shaking until before him stood the bird-woman of myth. The transformation was even more frightening as he thrashed against silent agony.

Dean had a moment of clarity blast through him like the pain that resulted from hearing everything at once. _This_ is what he'd seen in the house the moment before the explosion. _This _was the evil that they had been combating. _This_ was the reason Camilla was dead, the reason he was in pain, the reason Sam wasn't with him.

"You won't win," Dean breathed out in a harsh gasp.

And darkness brought a companion to the silence.

www

Strangely, the door had been open.

"Okay, where the hell did they go?" Sam blasted as he stomped through the empty motel room where Mike claimed he'd left Dean. "George was going to bring Wren back… you said Dean was here!"

Sam whirled to face Mike.

"Where is he?" Sam bellowed.

Mike lifted his hands helplessly. "I don't know! I left him right there—on the couch."

"Well, he's not there now!" Sam began to circle the room, searching, eyes darting. _C'mon, man… give me something…_ "I'm going to check our room."

"He didn't have a key," Mike said.

"What do you mean, he didn't—"

"The key he grabbed… it was the extra one for this room."

"Dammit," Sam snapped and slammed out of the room.

"Sam, wait!" Mike called after him.

"_WHAT_?!" Sam yelled. His patience was paper thin and his anger flushed hot in his cheeks. He imagined that if his skin were to be cut, his anger would bleed out like acid and burn him alive. "He's out there, somewhere, man, and I—"

"Would you just shut up a minute!" Mike yelled back, unwilling to back down. "Look."

"What?" Sam grabbed the silver filigree from Mike's grip. It was a locket. "What…"

"Just look," Mike insisted.

Sam opened the clasp of the locket.

…_we are spirits clad in veils…_

"Wait… wait… I know something…"

"Well, that's a relief. I was getting worried," Mike said dryly.

Ignoring him, Sam flipped the chain around his hand, turned and headed to the room he shared with Dean. Unlocking the door, he stalked inside, directly for his laptop. His breath caught at the picture floating across on the screen saver. Dean and John, shotguns raised to shoulders, both grinning like idiots, aiming at something off camera. Sam remembered that day. Remembered the moment.

He tapped the touchpad and removed the memory, ignoring the information about sirens Dean had left for him. He didn't need it now. He knew his brother was right. His brother knew people. He could read them. A skill Sam had yet to perfect.

_I should have trusted you…_ Sam cursed himself as his fingers flew over the keypad.

"Oh, my God," he whispered.

"What? Would you stop with the cryptic exclamations already!" Mike circled behind Sam, peering at the monitor. "I don't get it."

"_Enosis_," Sam whispered. "She said it was a poem. By this dude Cranch. She's been trying to tell us… all this time…"

"Who has? Tell us what?"

"George said it was Camilla, but… I think… I think _Wren_ has been trying to tell us…"

Mike's nostrils flared as he drew in a sharp breath, finger joints popping as he curled his hands into fists. "I went to medical school. I know how to take you apart. Slowly and painfully. Do _**not**_ push me, man."

Sam tossed the locket on the table, turning to his duffel. "Wren has been trying to tell us that she's a siren."

"A siren."

Sam dug through the bag, searching for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon against a mythical monster. "A siren," he repeated. "Created by Demeter to find and protect Persephone. C'mon, man. You went to college."

"Demeter? Wren's last name?"

Sam rolled his eyes, smacking his palm on his forehead. "Oh, my _God_!" He turned and pointed the barrel of Dean's sawed-off shotgun at the monitor. "Look. Look at the poem."

Mike tore his eyes from the business end of the shotgun and read aloud, "…_We are spirits clad in veils: man by man was never seen. All our deep communing fails to remove the shadowy screen…"_

"She lost someone… maybe her parents, maybe her mate, who knows. And when she did, she forgot what she was."

"You got that from this poem?" Mike raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

Sam tossed the shotgun to Mike and reached back into the bag for another. "From the poem, from some stuff she was saying… it just makes sense."

"No… no it doesn't," Mike shook his head, surprising Sam by expertly checking the weapon in his hand for shells. "What was Camilla trying to tell George before the picnic? Why was her body rolled over? Why was George hearing their song?"

Sam sighed. "I don't know man, okay? I just… I don't think Wren is completely evil is all."

Mike shook his head. "You got a thing for her."

"I do not."

"Yeah, you do," Mike nodded, his face serene in his confidence. "You don't want her to be bad, so, you're gonna figure out a way to make it so she isn't."

"Shut up," Sam snapped, clenching his jaw. "That's not true." He stormed past Mike.

"Sure looks true from where I'm standing," Mike retorted, following him out of the room. "Where you off to, all loaded for bear?"

"Cooper's house," Sam replied.

"Why?"

"'Cause Dean's there."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause he's not here. And the Impala is. And he's determined to figure this out with or without my help. And that's where it all started. And if you don't stop asking me questions I'm gonna knock you out and tie you up in the back of your own damned truck, I swear to _GOD_!"

Sam's voice rose in volume as they walked ending with him facing Mike in the darkened parking lot, leaning forward with the effort to get his point across.

"All right then," Mike nodded, his calm a direct opposition to Sam's ferocity. "Your car or mine?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the Impala, a tightness building in his chest at the thought of being in there _with_ Mike… and not Dean.

"Yours. We may need the truck bed."

Mike climbed up, waiting until Sam had closed his own door before starting up the engine.

"Hey, Mike?" Sam asked suddenly, the flurry of unanswered questions beating against his mind like frightened birds.

"Yep."

"You know anything about oleander?"

Mike looked at him, brows pulled together in question as he exited the hotel parking lot. "Why would you ask me that?"

"It's planted around the Cooper's house. Dean saw it."

Mike seemed to pale in the sporadic light of the highway.

"What is it?" Sam pressed.

"I didn't… I never put it together until now, but…"

"But, what?"

"Camilla asked me about it once… she'd read some book she said and wanted to know if it was really poisonous."

"_Camilla_ planted it?"

"I don't know!" Mike snapped. "Thing is… oleander sap, it… it can cause—"

"Heart attacks, yeah, I know," Sam said softly.

"What have you guys got me into?" Mike muttered, pressing the accelerator to the floor.

Sam let his head snap back, hitting the rear window with a soft _thump_.

www

At first, he wasn't sure if he was awake.

The pain convinced him. It was the kind of pain that had gotten comfortable in his bones, letting him know it planned on being around for awhile, so he should just get used to slices of heat and shivers of cold and an ache that made him want to scream from his gut.

Slowly raising his head, the cuts on his neck crying out from being stretched and abused, his head pounding at the motion, Dean opened his eyes to survey his surroundings. Everything was dark. Not simply dark. But _black. _No light. No relief. There were no ends, no corners of light, no grays to break up the pitch.

He had to blink several times to convince himself that he hadn't been blindfolded.

It was as if he'd been struck blind. The darkness was as complete as the silence. Even his heartbeat had quieted. He heard a rushing pump of air as his panic took hold and he wanted to lick his dry lips—until he realized that his mouth had been sealed by a piece of tape.

_Easy, Dean, you can do this_… he told himself. _You've been through worse. You've gotten out of worse…_

As awareness sharpened, Dean tried to reach up and pull the tape away. His hands caught and held fast behind him. The rasp of his breath picked up speed as he twisted his nimble fingers along the chains that were wrapped several times around his wrists, holding his hands behind him, trapping him against something solid.

He was on the ground, chains wrapped tight, securing him to a post or pole or a wall. Tight. So tight that he couldn't pull more than a few inches away without feeling the dig of chains against his skin.

_Oh, fuck me…_ He couldn't do this. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't even call out. His hands were trapped and he was helpless. Fuckin' _helpless_.

A wordless scream drew up from his belly, climbed with volcanic intensity through his tight chest, and tore the lining of his throat only to beat itself to death against the tape sealing his mouth shut. He thrashed against the chains, feeling his skin pull and coil, twisting against the restraints and tearing itself as panic ate through him, tipping his world sideways, his breath slamming through him.

_Dean._

He froze. That voice… he knew that voice. How had he heard…

_Don't be scared, Dean._

He worked to calm his breathing, trying to slow the panicked crawl of skittering oxygen through his body and bring it back to where it belonged.

_I am so __**proud**__of you_.

Dean swallowed, stifling the insane urge to claw at his face until the adhesion of the tape was well away from his skin. He turned to roll the tape free on his shoulder, but the motion tugged painfully at the wounds on his neck and he bit back what felt like a whimper.

_Okay, okay, _he chanted silently. _You can do this, Dean. Think, dammit, just think…_

He turned his head, straining to see _something_, but the darkness seemed to eat itself around him, devouring even the hope of light. Feeling his breath begin to quicken once more, he shifted against the solid object he was chained to, and suddenly registered that he could move his legs.

They weren't tied or restrained. Eyes closing with a breath of relief, he pulled his knees close, easing the pressure on his lower back. As he moved, he could tell that his boots had shifted something with their movement. Something soft…

Breathing slowly, he focused on the scents around him. It smelled like dirt and metal, salt and rot. Like old tree roots and rain. Like worms and mold. It smelled… like a grave.

Dean groaned. _No, no… you have __**not**__ been buried alive. NO._

He shuddered remembering the cavalier way he'd dismissed Camilla's prone body, joked about the horror it would be to be trapped in a coffin.

_You're sitting up, idiot. You're not in a coffin. You're chained to a freakin' wall. You're not buried. If you were buried, they wouldn't have to chain you…_

Then where the hell was he? Unable to resist the instinct to see, he continued to blink, widening his eyes each time in hopes that they would adjust enough to give him something. He stretched out his fingers as far as he could, feeling along the post that his chains were fastened to. It felt like old wood, soft and worn. He wondered how hard it would be to yank the hook free.

Grunting, sweating, feeling the metal pull against his bruised wrists, Dean twisted slowly until he was able to position his legs beneath him. The strain on his shoulders as his arms pulled taut behind him tore at the stitches on his shoulder and Dean felt the warm blossom of blood seep through his Henley, the salty scent hit his nostrils, combating with the aroma of dirt and decay.

_Okay, okay… focus Dean. Sam is with a siren. Your brother needs you. You can't be trapped in some…dirt box._

A dirt box… He turned his head, breathing deeply. It wasn't a box. Faintly, very faintly, he felt a stir of air. It was a… tunnel.

_Holy shit._ The realization burst upon him so swiftly, he was dizzy. He was under the Cooper house. In the Underground Railroad tunnel that Sam had told him about. He tried to take a deep breath, tried to calm his racing heart, but the tape made that nearly impossible.

_Easy, Dean, just breathe. Just breathe. You can do this. You __**have to**__ do this. There is no one else._

The fluid that had been shifting in his ears rolled again and then suddenly the sound of his breathing was painful. He closed his eyes tightly, curling in on himself as the pain crescendoed with the slam of his heart beat. He felt himself groan and the sound of it shook him, hard, causing him to pull at his chains, trying to get his hands over his ears.

The rattle of the chains was like a cacophony of noise and Dean felt himself falling inside the black, tipping over, twisting his arms painfully, tearing at his shoulder until his face hit the dirt floor of the tunnel and awareness made its escape.

www

Starlight illuminated the land in silver edging.

In an eerie rerun of the first night of the hunt, Mike parked his truck across the street from the Cooper's destroyed house. Sam looked at the destroyed structure in the wan starlight and suppressed a shiver. It looked like the house was grinning at him. Pieces of wood and furniture was still strewn across the front lawn, and one of the side walls had started to buckle.

"We're just gonna… talk to them, right?" Mike asked. "Not go in… guns blazing?"

"This isn't some western, dude," Sam grumbled, opening his door.

"With a name like Winchester, I just had to be sure," Mike retorted, sliding out of the truck and joining Sam by the side of the road. "We don't even know if anyone is here."

A beam of a flashlight shone in the detached garage.

"We do now," Sam moved forward.

"Think that's your brother?"

"Maybe."

"What would he be looking for in the garage?"

_A muzzle_… Sam suppressed the insane urge to reach out and belt Mike, recognizing the irritation as one he often felt around his brother. The thought was suddenly comforting. As they approached the house, Sam saw the beam start to bounce forward as its owner walked toward the garage entrance.

Instinct had him clapping Mike on the chest, pushing the big man behind the remnant of wall by the house, hiding them from sight. Mike opened his mouth in protest and Sam slapped his hand across it, silencing him.

"Come on, honey," George was saying. "We have what we need… we can go now."

"You're not listening," Wren's soft voice washed over the two listeners. Sam heard the tears heavy in the words. "I do not _want_ to go. I've always been here."

"No, honey, no, you only think you have. We need to go before that boy's brother comes looking for him."

Sam removed his hand from Mike's mouth, sending him an _I told you so_ glance before looking back toward the garage. Wren was walking toward the house, her sightless, hesitant gait replaced by a focused, confident stride.

"Let him come," she said. "He's what I need."

"Wren, honey," George hurried after her, his flashlight bouncing along the ground. "You don't need anyone but me. You said so."

"I was wrong."

"I can take care of you," George caught up to her, grabbing her arms, turning her around. "I can watch out for you. Please, Camy—"

"George," Wren's voice chilled as it departed her lips, leaving an almost visible vapor trail in the wan starlight. "Camilla is dead. You made sure of that."

Mike gasped involuntarily, and Sam stiffened when Wren turned toward the sound.

"Go, go," Sam whispered, pushing Mike along the damaged wall, through the cluster of oleander, toward the back of the house.

In the shadow of the building, they pressed against the wall, catching their breath.

"What did I just hear?" Mike gasped, licking his lips nervously and looking over at Sam. "I did _not_ just hear that."

"Yeah, you did." Sam leaned his head back against the wall. "Dean's here. He's here."

"Where?"

Sam craned his neck around the edge of the house. "Shit!" He turned, pushing at Mike with anxious hands, "Go, move, _move_."

Mike heeded Sam's frantic whisper, turning and sprinting around the edge of the house, skidding to a halt just before leaping over some debris from the blast. Sam saw what was about to happen even before Mike landed.

The pop of his right knee was audible in the quiet of the night; Mike's semi-stifled cry of pain ended when the big man came down on the rough tufts of grass, grabbing for his wounded appendage.

Sam sprinted close, trying to pull him up, trying to wrap an arm over his shoulder, trying to get away. He felt Mike tremble, felt the pain from his weakened leg shake through him. Sam couldn't lift Mike and hold the guns. He opted for Mike, leaving the shotgun in the dirt by the debris of the house.

"C'mon, man," Sam encouraged.

"M'bad leg, Sam…" Mike gasped, trying to push up on his left leg. "Oh, _God_, my leg."

"Sam?" Wren's voice drifted toward them in the dark and Sam looked up, seeing her pale skin reflect the starlight.

"Wren," he replied, wishing desperately that his voice didn't shake on her name.

"What… where are you going?"

Sam froze, holding the shaking PA close to him, realizing with sudden clarity that Wren was looking at him. Looking _right at _him.

"I see you've gotten your sight back."

Mike's head bounced up and he looked toward Wren, incredulous.

"It's amazing what remembering who you are will do for you," Wren said, stretching her arms to her sides as if embracing the chill of the night.

"You mean _what_ you are," Sam snapped, trying to pull Mike back with him, conscious of the other man's haggard breathing.

Wren continued to move closer, her steps light, as if she were dancing in the dark. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, handsome. And you are, you know. So, so handsome. Everything about you is… desirable."

"Where is my brother?" Sam demanded, stumbling over a charcoal-covered piece of wood. Mike groaned as he put weight on his leg to help catch them.

"Around," Wren shrugged, lacing her fingers delicately in front of her body. "Remember that kiss, Sam? Remember how… _amazing_ that was? How much you wanted to… climb inside of me?"

"Shut up," Sam snarled.

"You just wanted to wrap around me and keep me safe. Protect me."

"Stop it!"

"But I don't want to," Wren laughed. "That's just the thing. I forgot for awhile… forgot who I was and why I was here. Why I loved the sea. Why I needed George… but, Camilla, the darling, she helped me remember. For just a little bit, but then you, Sam… _you_ brought it back. All in a… a _rush_." She wrapped her arms around herself, shimming her hands up her body to her face and tossing her head back in a thrilled tremor.

"Wh-where's George?" Mike gasped.

Wren's electric eyes snapped over Sam's shoulder at the same time that he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. He stopped his retreat, felt sweat break out on his upper lip and under his eyes.

"I'm right here, Mike," George's soft, mellow voice said from behind them.

Mike gripped Sam's arm, forcing them around, both staring agape at the old man holding a gun on them. Sam shook his head. How had he been _so wrong_ about someone.

"I really thought you loved her," Sam said softly, feeling his sadness for Camilla's fate thick in his chest.

"I do love her."

"He's talking about Camilla, you bastard," Mike spat.

"I _do_ love her," George repeated, stepping forward.

Sam held firm, the possibility of getting shot by a sixty-year-old man less of a threat to him than being seduced by a siren.

"Then why the hell'd you _poison_ her?" Mike yelled. "You killed her, George. Killed Camy."

"No," George shook his head, looking confused, holding the gun steady. "No, I… the flowers were…"

"Deadly," Mike said, straightening up against Sam. "They were deadly, George. Camy knew about Wren, didn't she? She told you before the picnic. You didn't believe her, but Wren couldn't risk losing your trust. So she had you poison your wife."

"No…" the gun wavered in George's grip.

"George," Wren warned from behind them.

"No, I… she wanted to talk to me, she…" George brought his head up. "You hear that?"

Mike looked at Sam, who shook his head once.

"You hear that? Our song. I hear her. I can hear her!" George started forward, heading toward the house, cocked gun forgotten. He moved past Sam and Mike, who rotated to follow, and charged Wren, intent on getting back into his destroyed house.

"George!" Wren yelled. "You promised me! You said you would take care of me."

George faltered, listening to the honey sound of her voice, stumbling in his flight.

"I—"

"George," Mike said. "Camy's calling you!"

"You shut up!" Wren rasped at Mike.

Sam winced. Her voice, when she hissed at Mike, felt like the tips of sharpened nails scraping along his spine. Mike started to pull away from him, limping heavily on his left leg, intent on getting through to his friend.

"George, go to her, don't listen to this bitch. Go to Camy."

"George, don't you dare!" Wren whipped around, her hand reaching out, nails growing into impossibly long, impossibly sharp talons, grabbing George's arm.

Sam took one step sideways, thinking only that he had to find his brother, when the shot rang out. He jerked violently at the unexpected sound, blinking through the sulfuric haze of gun smoke at George's shocked face. It wasn't until Mike slipped completely from his grasp that Sam realized the older man had been hit.

"Oh, God," Sam uttered, dropping to the ground with Mike. "Mike, no, don't you do this."

Mike gasped, his hand on his side, looking almost gray in the faint light. He tipped his hand up and they both stared in horror at the stain of blood, black in the starlight, on his side.

"Mike…" Sam breathed. "You listen to me. Listen!" Mike blinked at him, his eyes wide. "You're getting out of this, you hear me? You're going home."

"Get your brother," Mike rasped. "Go find him."

Sam looked up at George. "Help me get him in the house," he ordered. George stared at the talon-slices in his arm, the gun hanging limply from his age-spotted hand. "George!" Sam snapped. "Get over here. Help me."

Wren took a step back, looking as torn and shaken as the rest of them over what had just transpired. Sam had to take a moment to remember that she had been living as a human—that she _knew_ these people. She reached for her throat, delicate—_human_—fingers searching for her locket.

George obeyed Sam, helping to lift a groaning Mike to his feet, as Sam watched Wren flounder.

"You're not gonna find it," he grunted. "Whoever that charm belonged to, whatever they meant to you, it's as gone as they are."

Wren looked over at Sam and her eyes seemed to grow, widening, hardening until they seemed to take up half of her face, turning from the luminescent blue he'd become accustomed to, to a hard, cold yellow. He drew back with an involuntary gasp, tightening his grip on Mike's sagging form. With a shriek that shook all three of them to their core, Wren spread her arms wide.

The darkness blurred and when Sam blinked again, the three men were alone in the yard.

"Guys," Mike whispered. "A little help…"

"Right," Sam shook himself. "C'mon, man, into the house."

"She's in there," George almost wept. "She's going to take her from me again."

Sam was dizzy trying to figure out who George was referring to being taken: Camy or Wren? His pity only went so far.

"You two took something from me," he growled as they moved Mike across the rubble-strewn yard. "And I want him back."

"He's in the tunnels," George gasped as Mike slumped, forcing them to bear his weight. "She left him in the tunnels."

"Tunnels?"

"Underground," George said as they stepped over what was left of the threshold.

They eased Mike to the ground and Sam scampered to the back of the dark house, pulling down curtains and bringing them back. He pressed them against the hole on Mike's side, causing the healer to cry out.

"Sorry," Sam said sincerely. "I'm so sorry, man."

"S'okay," Mike gasped, putting his blood-soaked, shaking hand over the make-shift bandage. "Go—"

The figure dropped among them without warning. Sam felt the reverberations slide through the air a few seconds before her scream pierced his skull.

"Shit! Mike, cover your ears!"

Sam did the same, curling over himself and trying with his whole being to block out the sound of death.

* * *

_Hotel, Nebraska, 1994_

_It took me a minute to realize that it was Sam's scream that jolted me out of a sound sleep. One minute, I'm dreaming about Ellie Walker and her sweet-tasting lips, the next I feel as though I've just fallen on top of my bed from a great height, landing hard enough to jostle my lungs free of air._

_I pant for a moment, unsure why I'm conscious until I hear him whimper, his voice rough from the ragged edge of a scream I realize I missed._

_I sit up, looking over at the bed next to the wall, thankful that he's still lying there and not moving toward the door. Dad must be out, or he would be standing at the foot of Sam's bed, the worry drawing lines on his face that I would want to erase._

_I toss the heavy covers free and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, watching my brother thrash in the throes of a nightmare. His hair is sweaty, plastered to his face, his mouth turned down in a frown, his lower lip protruding and giving him an air of one years younger. _

_"Sam," I whisper, but am answered only by another whimper. I stand, move across the narrow space that separates us, then sit on the edge of his bed. "Sam." _

_He jerks roughly, pulling away from my comforting hand. _

_"Gotta get out, Dean, gotta get out… it's gonna get us… don't let it get us, Dean, don't let it get you… please, Dean, don't leave me alone…"_

_"Sam!" I shake him, forcing him free of terror's grip._

_He opens his eyes on a gasp, pushing up in the bed on sweaty hands._

_"Dean?"_

_"I'm here, man. I'm right here."_

_"Where are we?"_

_I shrug. "Motel somewhere. Nebraska, I think."_

_"Dad here?"_

_"Not right now," I say, watching fear turn his face ghost-white. "But he'll be back."_

_He wipes the sweat from his face with trembling hands and my heart quakes. He's just a kid. His hands should not tremble in the dead of night. Not from fear. _

_"You thirsty?" I ask._

_"Yeah."_

_"Don't move."_

_"'K."_

_I stand and fill a small plastic cup with water from the bathroom faucet, then turn to my duffel, digging out the newspaper-wrapped dream catcher. I return to him, handing him the water first. He finishes it in one breath._

_"I got something for you," I say, sitting once more on the edge of his bed._

_"Yeah?" He looks at the package warily. "Did I forget a birthday?"_

_I grin. "No, dumbass. I made it for you."_

_"Why?"_

_"'Cause I'm an awesome big brother," I say. "You want it or not?"_

_"Yeah, I want it," Sam snaps. _

_"You gotta do something for me, though."_

_He lifts an eyebrow. I know he's picked this up from me, but the baby face that still rounds his face makes him look comical, not threatening._

_"Oh yeah?" He says._

_"You have to forget about that night."_

_I expect him to question which of the many nights of terror we've experienced I could possibly be referring to, but he doesn't. Instead, he drops his eyes, and I see his chin tremble._

_"Sam?"_

_"I was so scared, Dean. I've never been scared like that before."_

_My chest tightens when a tear falls. _

_"I know, man," I say softly._

_"I thought… I thought it was going to get you 'cause you wouldn't leave me."_

_I blinked. He'd been afraid for me?_

_"It didn't get me, Sam. Dad got it first."_

_"Yeah, but—"_

_"Listen to me," I say, rough enough to draw his eyes. "They can't get us, okay? We're the good guys."_

_"The good guys," he repeats, sniffing._

_"Let that bastard go, Sam," I order. "It's gone, and it's never coming back."_

_"Gone," he nods, doing his best to reign in the tears. _

_"Forget it ever happened, okay?"_

_"Okay," he agrees. "Can I have my present now?"_

_"You gotta promise first."_

_He sighs, and I smile inside as I'm rewarded with the eye roll I'd been waiting for._

_"I promise."_

_"Okay, here."_

_I watch nervously as he opens the dream catcher. It's not as nice as the one Pastor Jim made me, and even I can see the clumsy knots in the resin-covered thread. But Sam's eyes light up and his remaining tears slip down his face to disappear in the corners of his smile, filling his dimples with gossamer. _

_"Cool, Dean!"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Thanks, man!"_

_"Wherever we go, you keep this with you, and you won't have any more bad dreams, okay?"_

_"Promise?"_

_"I promise," I say with the conviction bred of those who know that lies have to be told to preserve the innocent. "And if any ever slip through, I'll be here to fight 'em back."_

_"I know you will," Sam says shyly. "Good guys, right?"_

_"All the way, man."_

* * *

There was dirt in his mouth.

He spat, irritated, before he opened his eyes, knowing instinctively that the darkness would be waiting for him.

_Son of a bitch, _he thought as the tape denied his lips movement.

His fingertips tingled from the tension his position put on his chained hands. Using his forehead as leverage, he pushed himself up.

_Enough of this shit_, Dean growled silently. He was done with being in pain, being freakin' helpless. He was getting out of this hell. Pushing himself to his knees he puffed air through his nose, trying to wiggle feeling back into his fingers. He could feel some play in the bolt that held him against the post.

Swaying back and forth, he ignored the now-dried blood on his shoulder as the cuts pulled with motion and worked his chain against the bolt. To distract himself from the pain, Dean reverted to the only thing that had saved him in the past.

_"Prison gates won't open up for me. On these hands and knees I'm crawling… I reach for you. I'm terrified of these four walls, these iron bars can't hold my soul in…"_

His lips stuck tight to the tape, his breath puffing out in what was most likely a tuneless hum, the lyrics and melody memories only, trapped in his muted head. He felt the bolt give slightly and pulled his feet beneath him, sweat beading on his face and rolling in rivers down his already-slicked back. He panted as he hummed, the words thumping inside of him like a heartbeat.

_"Show me what it's like… to be the last one standing…teach me wrong from right… and I'll show you what I can be…"_

The bolt gave with a suddenness that felt like a physical _pop_, dropping Dean unceremoniously on his face. He spat dirt, sniffing the wet spring of blood back as he turned his face in the dust, laughing in pained triumph.

_Take __**that**__ you feathered FREAK!_

Panting slightly, he caught his breath and on an elongated groan of pain, pulled his hands as far apart as the chains allowed. Taking another deep breath through his nose, he pulled his legs as close to his chest as he could, stretching his sore arms long and pulled the chains over his feet, falling on his back with his chained hands on his chest the moment he was able to de-pretzel himself.

The second he caught his breath, Dean reached up and pulled the tape from his mouth, calling out into the darkness with a guttural cry, "FREEDOM!"

For a moment, he lay panting, pulling stale air into his mouth, rolling it around, licking his lips, laughing maniacally.

"That was for you, Sammy," he rasped, thinking of the song he'd chosen to encourage himself. "Damn emo rock."

Rolling to his side, he pushed himself to a trembling stance on his hands and knees, head hanging low. He concentrated on the sensations left to him: touch, feel, taste.

His mouth was dry, the copper taste of blood at the back of his throat. His fingers were buried in centuries-old dirt, and he wouldn't be surprised if he encountered a bone or two if he continued to explore. He could smell dirt, metal, and the stir of stale air.

"You can't beat me, you bitch," he muttered toward the ground, panting through a dizzying wave of heat. "I won't _let_ you."

_Don't be scared, Dean._

His hands tethered to the heavy metal of the chain, Dean inched back to where he remembered the post to be. Feeling along in the dirt, the tips of his fingers hit the worn wood. Nodding simply to feel himself respond, he felt along the post until he encountered what felt like a wall.

Pausing, he listened to his heart. Literally. The steady beat shushed through the hollow of his wounded ears, pushing pain against his temples, heat behind his eyes, and reassuring him with the sound of his life. Taking a breath, he put his bloody shoulder against the wall, keeping his fingers against the rock and dirt littered ground, then moved forward.

"Please don't let there be anything down here but me," he whispered to the silence wrapping around him as thick as the dark.

_Don't be scared, Dean._

www

His swore hi ears were bleeding.

He could almost feel it seeping like sap from a cut oak, running down the sides of his neck, trickling along the insides of his wrists as he pressed his hands harder against his ears.

And suddenly, there was silence.

Tentatively, Sam removed his hands, blinking, looking around in a daze.

"Wren?" he called, just to reassure himself that he could still hear his own voice.

"Think… think she's gone," Mike gasped.

Sam looked down at the medic, pressing the cloth curtain over his wound once more.

"Hold that there, man," he said, wincing as his jaw popped with his words. "You're going to be okay."

"Who… who you trying to convince?"

Sam turned from Mike's gray face to look for George.

"Oh, God," he whispered, finding the slumped form of the old man against what was left of a bookshelf. "George…"

Crawling across the broken pieces of the Coopers' life, Sam reached the elderly man, turning him over and drawing back in horror and sorrow. George's eyes were open, staring blankly up at Sam, doll-eyes that saw no more pain. Blood had streamed from the tear ducts, flooding his face, burying itself in the creases time had worn across his skin.

A dark trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, and as Sam rested his hand on the old man's chest, he felt the bones give as if George had been hollowed out.

"I'm sorry, man," he whispered. "I'm sorry we couldn't save you."

"He… okay?" Mike gasped from across the room.

"No," Sam replied, raising his voice so that Mike could hear.

"Dammit," Mike cursed, and Sam heard him drop his head back. "He loved her, man. He loved both of them."

"One tried to save him, the other destroyed him," Sam agreed, easing George down to lay among the broken pieces of his life with Camilla. Frowning, he ticked his head to the side, hearing what he thought was a radio. "You leave the radio on in your truck?"

"No," Mike shook his head. "I hear it, too."

"What is it?"

"Wind chimes?" Mike guessed, pushing himself up on a shaking elbow.

Sam stood, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his unbandaged hand. "No… it's… humming."

"Your brother?"

Sam looked sharply at Mike. "The tunnels."

"You know where the entrance is?"

Sam shook his head. "I never got that far."

The sound increased, seeming to fluctuate like the sound of waves hitting the shore.

"Holy shit," Mike breathed. "It's their song. We're hearing their song."

"What?"

"_Moonlight Serenade, _man. You ever hear of Glenn Miller?"

"Sure, I've heard of him, but—" He stopped, listening hard. "I'll be damned."

"Follow it," Mike ordered.

"What about you?"

"Dammit, Sam," Mike groaned, pressing his hand tighter to his bleeding side. "Do you _always_ have to argue? Just follow the damn music! Get your brother back."

Sam stared at him a moment longer. "You better be here when I get back."

"Hurry it up, then."

Sam turned, holding his breath, following the sound of the humming. As he moved through the house, he stepped over books, glass, pieces of chair and couch… and dozens of dead birds. It was as if they were drawn to this place, but slammed into a barrier of resistance the moment they encountered the power within.

As he listened, the humming led him to the back room, a mudroom it appeared, and an almost-hidden door in the wooden floor. The moment he wrapped his hand around the clasp, the humming ceased. Sam lifted his face to the empty room.

"Thanks, Camy," he said. Around him, he felt the house sigh.

Lifting the creaking door, he grunted, holding it up with his shoulder, and searched for a ladder. If there had been one, it was long gone. He had no idea how deep the hole was; the bottom was covered with the light-swallowing emptiness of black. But Dean was down there.

"Here goes nothin'," he muttered, tipping the door up all the way, grasping the edge of the floor, and swinging low. He dropped about four feet to the dirt floor below.

Even with the door above him open letting in the shimmer of the night, it was pitch dark around him. Sam swallowed, trying desperately _not_ to think of his brother trapped in this darkness, silence his only companion. He wanted to call out, to search for Dean through the only means at his disposal—his voice.

But it was useless in the suffocating stillness of sound that encompassed Dean's reality. Crouching low, Sam began to crawl, feeling his way toward a wall, then putting his shoulder against the wall, and crawled through the darkness as fast as he dared.

"Please let Dean be the only other thing down here with me," he whispered to the darkness.

Pausing occasionally to hold his breath and listen, Sam made his way as quickly as he dared down the tunnel. When he heard the labored breathing ahead of him, he felt himself go dizzy with relief.

He'd found him.

Without thinking, he crawled faster, reaching out and grabbing Dean's ankle, feeling the predictable shape of the throwing knife in its sheath.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Dean bellowed, rolling quickly and thrusting his foot out in a desperate fight for freedom.

"Wait, Dean, don't! It's me—" Sam started before his brother's boot caught him in his mid-section and air vacated his lungs in a quick rush. Sam tumbled back, reaching up in automatic defense, knowing the next move would be Dean on top of him, hands at his throat.

He didn't anticipate the chains.

The heavy weight of metal at his throat, wrapped so tightly around his brother's wrists that Sam could feel the blood slicking the links, cut off his air, choking Sam with his own saliva.

"De—" he tried, digging his fingers into his brother's forearms above the bruising wrap of chain. The darkness was complete. He couldn't make Dean hear him; Dean couldn't see him. Desperate, Sam kicked his knee up, catching Dean between the legs and sending him to his side with a pained gasp.

"Dean," Sam rasped, holding his bruised throat and rolling toward his brother. "It's me, man."

Dean was groaning, but his fight wasn't out. Sam could feel his anger, his frustration for being cloaked in darkness in more ways than one. He heard the jangle of chains as Dean swept his hand out, and ducked one second too late, the swinging end of chains, and Dean's tethered hand catching him in a glancing blow across the cheek bone and opening his skin.

"Dammit, Dean!" Sam cried out, grabbing his face, feeling the wet slick of blood.

He swung his leg astride his brother's torso, putting his knees in Dean's shoulders, knowing he was causing his brother pain, but desperate to get his attention. In what he knew would be a familiar gesture, he pressed his knees down hard, then fumbled his touch down Dean's features until he reached his brother's nose, squeezing it lightly.

"Sam?" Dean squeaked, stilling.

Sam relaxed, collapsing forward, and rolled off of Dean, his back hitting the dirt wall.

"Sammy?"

Sam's throat closed at the name, the sound of youth and hope in Dean's voice. He reached out clumsily to grasp Dean's chain-linked hands, pressing his brother's fingers to his cheek. And smiled. Dean's fingers dipped once into his dimples and he felt his brother's whole being relax.

"You okay?" Dean asked as Sam felt him scoot closer in the darkness.

Keeping Dean's hand on his face, Sam nodded. They were completely cut off from each other, no hope of hearing, no way to read lips, no way to connect. Except, there was. Carefully, Sam felt along Dean's hands, his fingers tripping along the wrapped chains on Dean's wrists, hissing as he felt the grooved wounds in his brother's skin.

"Hang on, Dean," Sam whispered his chant aloud. "Hang in there, man."

Sam felt his brother go still, holding his hands steady so that Sam could unwrap the bindings. It took longer than Sam wanted, the knowledge that Mike lay bleeding somewhere above him heavy on his mind. But, his brother was bleeding in front of him. He'd felt the slick slide of sticky blood from the gouges the chains had created. He'd felt the wounds on Dean's neck and shoulder give as they wrestled.

"You believe me now?" Dean asked softly as the chain finally fell away, freeing his hands completely.

Sam put Dean's hand on the side of his face, nodding again.

"About freakin' time," Dean sighed. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sam nodded again, then froze.

"What?" Dean asked, as though he actually expected an answer he could understand.

Sam had been so focused on Dean _not_ strangling him, he lost track in the dark of which way was out. He felt his breath begin to pick up speed as he turned one way, then the other, encountering pitch blackness from both angles.

"Sammy… hey. Hey! Sam." Dean demanded his attention, somehow sensing his panic in the darkness and silence around him. Sam put his brother's hand on his face again to show that he had it. "I know which way to go, okay?"

Sam tilted his head, asking Dean _how_? with the motion.

"I can smell the air," Dean said, and Sam heard the smile in his voice.

"Son of a bitch," Sam breathed.

Dean twisted his hand in Sam's grip, putting Sam's hand at the end tail of his shirt, then started to crawl forward. "Don't you lose me, man," Dean muttered as he pushed his shoulder against the wall, crawling forward.

Dean didn't like to be alone, that much Sam knew. Alone in the quiet in a crowd of people. Alone in the quiet, surrounded by darkness… it would be a version of hell for his brother that Sam didn't want to contemplate. He held tightly to Dean's shirt, shifting forward as Dean did, following in his brother's strides, as he'd always done.

After several minutes of measured breaths, pauses to gasp, inadvertent groans of pain and frustration, Sam realized that the air around him had turned gray. Dean had led them not back to the house, but to the exit of the tunnel. Sam could smell the sea. He could hear the rush of the water as it raced itself for shore.

_It has no memory_.

"You see that?" Dean asked, not expecting an answer. "We're almost out, Sammy. You just stay with me, okay?"

Sam looked at his brother's back, catching his breath at the gore there. Dirt and blood mingled to a paste and sweat plastered the whole mess to the shape of muscle along Dean's spine. As the gray continued to lighten, they pushed their way to their feet, stumbling along the cobwebby, cloistered space until the pre-dawn light greeted them.

They exited what looked like a moss-coved cave entrance, hidden from sight for all intents and purposes. Dean leaned on the entry way, his face drawn, his breath coming in stuttered gasps, blood from his wrists dripping from the tips of his fingers. But he was there. He was alive.

"We made it," Sam said weakly, smiling at his brother, for one brief moment, believing in miracles.

Until she hit him from above, her song folding his heart, her cry tearing at his eyes.

www

"Sam!" Dean cried as the figure slammed his brother to the ground. "Sam, don't listen to her! Cover your ears, man!"

But she'd struck too fast, Dean could see. Sam's mouth opened in a scream as Dean watched the siren's song sliced into his brother's heart, bleeding his will from his eyes. She wanted him, but Sam was denying her. And he was paying the price with his blood.

"Over my freakin' _dead body_," Dean growled low, charging the siren in an unsteady gait as his world swam around him. He body-slammed her away from Sam, landing hard on top of her slim, unnaturally strong body.

Wren's eyes were large, hard, her skin pulled taut against protruding cheekbones. Dean saw her mouth open in a cry, and smiled. "Won't work on me, sweetheart. You blew my ears to hell and back, remember?"

He grabbed at her neck, squeezing as her eyes widened, her talons reached for him.

"You want to be a fuckin' spirit clad in a veil?" He grunted, dodging her talons, rolling her further from Sam. "You want to hide in plain sight, pretending you're one of us? You want to forget what you are?"

Wren's eyes flashed and for one moment Dean was caught by her desperation, her desire to escape, her _need_ for companionship, the eternal seeking for someone like her, someone to be with her, someone that wouldn't leave her lonely. That moment gutted him, turning him cold, left him hollow until the sound of his heart, the rasp of his breathing echoed through all of him, not just his ears.

"You want to be saved?" Dean whispered, knowing she heard him, knowing she took it in. Tightening his grip, he rolled again, feeling the rocks of the shoreline digging into his already bruised back.

Smelling the closeness of the sea, the salt and the brine and the freedom, Dean pulled Wren's delicate, human face close to his, his lips a breath away from hers.

"I'm two steps from being saved, sweetheart," he said, his mouth brushing her icy skin, her breath brushing against him as it stuttered from her captured throat. "But I'm only taking one."

Another roll and the salt water stung his back. Clasping her tightly against him, Dean watched as the siren cried, her song beating silent wings against his wounded ears, her fight one she wasn't going to win. Wren's skin folded away, shivering and shuddering and turning into slick, black feathers. Dean gripped harder, refusing to let go. Refusing to give in.

He felt her panic, felt her buck beneath him as the sea tugged them closer, felt the tide drag them together into the roll of the undertow. He caught his breath and held on as Wren's true form emerged, her talons, digging deep into his shoulders, her feathers slick against his skin, his face, her cold, yellow eyes staring into his as they were dragged under.

He held on, rolling with the sea as it caught her, seduced her, pulled her back into its embrace, drowning her scream, absorbing her into its history. As she was ripped from his embrace, arms reaching back toward him, Dean was amazed that the water buoyed him. He was suspended in the drift, lungs aching, eyes stinging, wounds burning, left to watch as the siren returned to the sea.

Dean kicked for the surface, thankful that it wasn't far, breaching the water with a gasping cough and a cry of, "Sam!"

He could barely move his arms. His chest ached to the point of tears. His cuts, old and new, were on fire. But still he pushed until he could touch, pushed until he crawled wet and shivering from the hold of the sea, pushed until the stones of the shore dug into his knees and his palms.

His back to the silent thunder of the most powerful force on earth, Dean crawled weakly toward the place he'd last seen his brother, nearly weeping when he saw Sam, face bloody, body trembling, crawling back toward him. The tears of blood Wren had drawn on Sam's face were now tracks of victory. When the brothers met on the rough, rock-strewn beach, they saw the badges of honor each had carried through the fight.

Sam reached up and gently clasped the back of Dean's neck, pressing his forehead against Dean's, closing his eyes. Dean kept his open, watching for some sign, some indication of Sam's words, not wanting to miss them. Not wanting to miss anything.

_They won't get us,_ Sam said, his lips lazy with exhaustion, not completely closing around the words, parted with pain.

Dean nodded, his dirt and blood-smeared forehead rubbing against his brother's.

"They won't get us, Sammy," he panted. "We're the good guys."

Before Dean could protest, Sam grabbed him close, pulling him up hard against his shoulder, and clapped him once on the back. Dean was unable to bite back a quick bleat of pain, just as Sam dropped away, falling to his back, and closed his bloody eyes against the light of morning. Strength depleted, Dean collapsed gratefully to his side, his pounding head near Sam's hand, his burning gaze on the horizon.

Sam reached over blindly, grabbing Dean's hand in a thumb-to-thumb grip, and pressed the back of his hand against his chest. Dean smiled, feeling solace in the beat of his brother's heart.

It wasn't over, Dean knew. Not by a long shot. But they were alive.

Breathing in the sweaty, familiar scent of his brother, Dean watched the sun crest the eastern horizon, turning the sea into the coppery color of old blood and promises, as sound slammed through him, turning his gasps of recovered breath into cries for relief.

* * *

a/n: I hope this chapter was worth the wait—and I'm sorry that I haven't been able to keep as close to my two-week deadline as I'd hoped. One more chapter to go and this journey is complete.

I know it's kinda bizarre to write six, 40+ page chapters, but well, there you go. _Grin. _I hope you're enjoying the ride!

Playlist:

_Savin' Me_ by Nickleback. T, that one's for you.

Sadly, this chapter wasn't conducive to music, but the final one will be, that I promise. Intex, there will be a song for you. And can I just say? Anyone who hasn't checked out Staind's new album "The Illusion of Progress" should do so now. I. Am. In. Love.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1

a/n: And we've come to the end. This chapter basically wrote itself, and I hope it doesn't disappoint. I used it as a balm through a bit of a recent rough storm. Those of you who've ever been laid off know what a tumbling ride that can be. I'll have a preview, of sorts, for my next story at the end of this chapter, if you're interested. I'm going to take a quick breath to surface and read a few stories I've been stockpiling, but then, I'll be diving back in and rejoining the fray.

Hope so much that you've enjoyed this journey. Thank you very sincerely for all of your comments. I treasure each one of them. Even those that shake me up a little. We all need our snow globe to be tipped over once in awhile, yeah?

Kelly, you know you rock.

_Less than a week to S4 premiere!!_

* * *

_You can't walk down a dirt road without picking up some dust. _

_- Thru Terry's Eyes_

www

There were some sounds that Sam would never forget.

The rumble of his father's voice. The slow roll of Jessica's laugh. The growl of the Impala's engine. His brother's cry of pain.

The weak light of morning fought to pierce through what he now saw were gathering rain clouds building from the west and tumbling toward the eastern horizon, the blood-red water fading to a muted orange as the rays were filtered. The sea had seemed to calm its tidal rush as soon as Dean emerged, wet, bleeding, shaking and empty-handed, to fall with him to the sandy floor.

Sam had only just felt the warmth of his brother's hand against his aching chest when Dean's body tensed, his hand jerked free and his cry crescendoed quickly to an abbreviated scream.

"Dean?" Sam called hoarsely, instinct erasing knowledge as he rolled to his side, reaching for his brother's now-curved back.

His trembling, sand-coated fingers gently pressed against the valley of Dean's spine, his brother's shirt painted to his skin with salt-water. Dean flinched away with a guttural groan. Sam felt panic slam the base of his throat and propel him to his knees, leaning over Dean.

Hands pressed tightly against his ears, face closed like a fist against intrusion, Dean was holding his body still, his arm, side, and chest muscles standing out in flexed contrast to the normal contours of his body.

"Wha—" Sam started.

"God," Dean whispered. "Stop… Ah, _God_, Sam… I gotta... make it stop!"

Dean's weak plea ate through Sam's heart like spoken acid, compelling him to lean closer, his hands hovering over Dean's tense shoulders uncertainly, looking for something that he could stop, something that he could control. Something he could _end_.

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Make what... stop?"

"_Fuck_," Dean ground out, his teeth audibly clacking against each other as he clenched them. "So fucking _loud_…"

_Noise_, Sam realized with dread, looking quickly up and around. They were surrounded by noise. The ocean, the birds, even the slow roll of rocks and shells across the sand as the water tripped back out to the sea had to be reverberating against Dean's raw ears.

When thunder rumbled, low and threatening, across the ceiling of clouds, Dean bucked, sliding his hands to the back of his head and pressing the flesh of his forearms against his ears.

"Son of a _bitch_," he cursed, biting his lower lip hard enough that Sam saw a fine line of blood run from his mouth to mix with the salt water on his chin.

Sam crawled around his brother's body, kneeling in front of Dean, taking stock for a brief moment. Time was his constant enemy. There was never enough of it, and he was always aware of how swiftly it moved. He'd never be able to out-run it, never be able to catch it, and his pleas for it to slow down were met with disinterested silence.

Sam was acutely aware that Mike lay bleeding back at the house. He pressed a hand to his chest, coughing, feeling a rattle inside like an impending cold, but knew it was only the effects of the siren's cry. The cry his brother had saved him from.

Looking around as Dean's tense body trembled against his bent knees, Sam tried to figure out which way from the sea they had to travel to return to Mike and George's body. He wiped at his wet cheeks with the heel of his hand, removing the remnants of bloody tears.

His mind felt sluggish—thoughts started, then were interrupted, unable to follow through to completion. His eyes burned, a familiar, gritty feeling. He'd felt this hot sting before. Looking in Bloody Mary's mirror. Seeing the true echo of his guilt stare back at him. Facing up to his sin, his mistake, his failure to save someone. To save Jess.

Coughing again, Sam spat a faint, pinkish residue into the sand, rubbing at his wounded chest, looking down at Dean. Dark red splotches of blood peppered Dean's shoulders where the siren's talons had dug in, and the back of his shirt was stained from where his neck wound had opened up.

Taking a soggy, rattling breath, Sam reached carefully for Dean's bruised wrists, vowing when his chilled fingers met his brother's heated skin that he wasn't going to fail this time. He wasn't going to fail like that again. Ever. Not with Dean.

"Hey," he said, softly, aware that the firewall of silence that had been between them for the past few days was crumbling in a painful rush of sound. "Let me help you, Dean."

"Too loud," Dean all-but growled.

Sam nodded, though Dean had yet to open his eyes. "I know," he said. "Let's make it stop together."

At that, Dean cracked one eye slightly, peering at Sam in a confused haze of pain.

_They won't get us… we're the good guys._ Those words had been hovering on the edge of Sam's memory from the moment he'd wrestled with Dean in the pitch black of the tunnel. Looking at his brother now, his face relaxed into a smile, feeling the truth of those words, though he couldn't pin-point the memory of their origin. They were the good guys.

Hell itself wouldn't be able to keep them for long.

At Sam's nod of encouragement, Dean tentatively reached up a hand, his eyes tightening immediately as the protection of his arms left his ears. Sam gripped his hand at the wrist, pushing to his feet and pulling his brother with him.

Upright, Dean immediately swayed, his legs unable to hold him. Sam felt the weight of his brother shift against him and automatically reached, wrapping his arm around Dean's slim, muscular back.

"I got you," Sam whispered as Dean's head fell loosely against his chest, his hand clumsily reaching for Sam's opposite arm, searching for balance. "I got you big brother."

"Don't… let go," Dean managed in a ragged whisper before his legs disappeared. With a soft _uhh _of air, Dean went boneless, his eyes falling closed, his lips parting as his jaw went slack. Sam's hands slipped on the blood now slick against Dean's shirt, sliding with a salt-water base against his skin.

Grabbing at Dean's jeans, digging his fingers into the belt loops there, Sam grunted, "Wouldn't dream of it," as he hoisted Dean up against him, frowning at his brother's lax face and closed eyes. "Dean?" Reaching up, he patted Dean's pale cheeks. "Dean? Hey!"

Nothing. Barely a flutter of lashes. Feeling his burning eyes well with the unmistakable sting of tears, Sam pressed his lips tight, stilling the tremble of his chin.

"Aw, c'mon, Dean. She didn't get you." He held Dean's face a moment longer. "Dean! Don't you do this to me. She didn't win!"

He swallowed hard, needing to say it more for himself than his unconscious brother. Sniffing, the rattle in his chest shaking another harsh cough loose, Sam crouched and put his shoulder against Dean's belly, bouncing once to take on his brother's weight.

With a shift to adjust Dean on his shoulder, Sam stood, air puffing roughly out through tight lips, his chest protesting.

"_Shit_. You're the human compass, Dean," he gasped. "Any idea which way the house is from here?"

Dean was silent and limp over his shoulder.

"Right," Sam nodded. "Okay, so… the tunnel exited there," he looked toward the wooded area where the siren had almost ended his life. A chill swept over him, causing him to shiver and raising gooseflesh on his bare arms.

"S-So… that means I just, uh… I go…" he gripped Dean's legs, "this way."

She'd almost had him, Sam realized as he half-walked, half-stumbled away from the beach toward where he thought the house should be. Not just back in the woods. There, her scream had gripped his heart with a crushing strength, pulling his soul through his eyes and leaving a bloody trail in its wake. But she'd never really had _him_.

At the beach, though, he'd _wanted_ her. He'd seen innocence in her eyes, felt need on her lips, tasted desire on her tongue and he'd _wanted_ her. Thinking of it even now had his belly stirring with a familiar heat that crept lower, making the already difficult task of walking even harder. She'd almost had him, then. Willingly.

"Focus, Sam," he scolded himself. Dean was dead weight in his arms, his blood soaking through Sam's clothes. Mike was wounded back at the house. George was…

"God, Dean," Sam said, just to have a focal point for his wayward thoughts. "She killed George. The only one who'd really cared for her. And… I think she made _him_ kill Camilla… even though… uh—" He tripped, going to one knee, Dean sliding part-way off his shoulder.

"Sorry," Sam panted, looking for something in Dean's face that would offer the reassurance that he was still close, awareness hovering just under the comfort of oblivion.

Nothing. Dean's breathing remained shallow, his head tipping back as his neck lacked support.

"Dammit," Sam cursed, drawing Dean back up on his shoulder and grunting as he pushed once more to his feet.

His body _hurt_. His chest protested every breath as if Wren had poured a bag of marbles inside his lungs, letting them bruise him from the inside out as they vibrated with the power of her cry.

_Focus, Sam_, he tried again. The toes of his boots dragged in the sand as he plodded forward, Dean's body growing heavier, Sam's guilt growing stronger.

_I was the one that got us into this mess… the one that insisted on this hunt… the one that should have been in the house… the one that got seduced by a goddamned siren…_

He stumbled again, his heart beating a pattern of regret: _my fault, my fault, my fault._

Dean groaned slightly, and Sam felt the sound through his back, a virtual smack against his guilty heart. He could almost hear Dean's voice in his head, _Would you stop?! Jesus Christ, Sam! You gonna apologize when the world ends, too?_

"I can't… I can't stop, Dean," Sam answered the drill sergeant in his head. "I screwed up."

_Then think about something else until this is over and I can kick your ass. _

"What else?" Sam swallowed the volume of his question, sweat from his efforts coating his upper lip, even while the cold weight of his brother's wet body soaked through his clothes, chilling him. "Think about what else, Dean?"

And the memory hit him like a wave.

_Are you humming… Metallica?!_

_It calms me down._

His mind was blank. He could no more find the words to a Metallica song than he could play Rachmaninoff on the harmonica.

"Baby did a bad, bad thing…" Sam panted, wanting so badly to close his eyes, his thirst driving him forward. "Baby did a bad, bad thing."

The song made him think of Jessica. Of her sexy backside clothed only in short, white briefs, her back covered by a barely-there tank top. Of her long blond curls smelling faintly like amber. Of her full lips against his.

His heart pounded once, hard, and he gripped Dean's legs harder, pausing to look around. Working to focus. Nothing looked familiar. He may as well be in the dark tunnel, dragging Dean back to the house through the dirt that bore witness to untold escapes for freedom.

"Dean…" Sam said, his voice tearing. "I'm sorry."

Dean groaned again and this time Sam felt a subtle shift. He paused his aimless wander, holding his brother, waiting to see if he would come back to him, tell him which way to go, what to do. When no answering snark followed the pained moan, Sam nodded.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. It's me. It's up to me. I'm gonna get us out of this, man."

Dean would be counting. Sam had watched him. He counted beats to a song, counted rotations of the wheels, counted lines on the road. He did it without thinking, without fanfare. He just pushed the world away, focused on the problem through repetition.

Sam had tried that calming technique before, to no avail. He just ended up adding a headache to his frustration. Shifting Dean slowly from one shoulder to the other, holding him now with his bandaged hand, Sam moved through the trees, sand having long ago given way to dirt and tufts of grass.

_"Take the light, undarken everything around me…Calm the clouds and listen closely, I'm lost without you. Call your name every day when I feel so helpless…I've fallin' down, but I'll rise above this, rise above this…"_

Thunder rolled. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head against the humor of karma. The first fat drop of rain landed on the tip of his nose and he blew at it, splattering it across his cheeks to join its cohorts as they tripped from the leaden clouds to saturate him and worked to wash the blood on Dean's back away.

If Wren hadn't already been returned to the sea, if she hadn't already revealed her hidden truth, her convenient sight, her unfortunate yearning, Sam might have been inclined to believe Dean's mistaken notion that the _ala_ had returned. This storm was a punishment. The rain fell in blinding sheets, turning the rough ground into puddles of mud and stone, grabbing at his ankles, holding him back, working to pull him down, taunting him with the image of dropping his precious burden.

The crack of lightning shook through Sam like a gunshot, and suddenly he was _awake_. Mike was back in the shell of a house. Bleeding. Alone with the body of his one-time friend. The body of a broken, confused man, who had only meant to act out of love.

Sam felt anger burble up as he hurried forward. Anger at Wren. Anger at himself.

Anger at the whole fucking world and the constant war that pitted lovers against one another, brothers against evil, fathers against sons, mothers against a force they couldn't begin to defeat.

His anger gave him focus. Direction. Strength.

Lightning crashed once more and Sam saw the outline of the house in the after-image of brilliance on his aching eyes. He blinked rain from his lashes, spitting it from his lips, hoping that Dean wasn't drowning in the deluge as he hung loosely down Sam's back, his face at Sam's waist.

"MIKE!" Sam bellowed, wincing audibly as the air pulled harshly against his congested lungs. "Mike! Answer me!"

The morning thunder was his only response. The clouds had build heavy gray walls around them, mirroring Sam's scowl, throwing the obstacle of darkness in his path and beating thunder against his ears until he wanted to scream in retaliation. Stumbling closer to the house, Sam eased Dean off of his shoulder, grasping his brother's wet, limp body as gravity did its job, leaning him against some debris from the house that basically sheltered him from nothing but the worst of the weather.

Dean's head lolled, the rain sluicing down his face and falling from the tip of his nose and his chin in miniature waterfalls.

"I'll be right back," Sam panted, water splashing from his lips. He tried to calm his racing heart. Dean looked translucent in the gray light of the storm.

Turning, Sam grasped the edge of the broken doorway just as another white-hot flash of lightening blasted through the air, peppering the rain with ozone and causing Sam to blink against the brilliance as he pulled himself into the soggy, destroyed house.

"Mike!" Sam called stepping over the loose boards, feeling oddly light with the absence of Dean's weight. He saw the wounded PA several feet away, lying on his side, very still. "Oh, shit."

Sam skidded to a stop on the wet wood, kneeling next to Mike and gently rolling the older man over into his lap. Though it was nearly impossible to detect his breath, Sam felt a pulse at the base of Mike's throat.

"Okay," he nodded, his hair falling into his eyes, sticking there with the plaster of rain. "Okay, man, you're going home. I promise, you're going home."

Sam fumbled down Mike's side, realizing that the Justin Healer had rigged up a sort of tourniquet around his middle, using the leather belt from his jeans to tie the wadded-up curtain tight against the wound.

"Nice," Sam nodded, pushing his hair from his face. As he gathered Mike against him, he heard something fall from the black man's hand. Reaching across Mike's body, Sam retrieved a cell phone, the numbers 9, 1, and 1 smeared with blood. Relief and worry warred for attention in his heart.

"Saved our asses again," Sam said softly, stuffing Mike's phone into his jeans pocket and looking over his shoulder where he'd left Dean, seeing only the top of his brother's head.

"Gotta get you two outta here," he managed, his cough ragged in the rain. "Some place better protected." He shifted Mike again, trying to lift the solid man with arms made, it seemed, of rubber.

Looking for the easiest path out, Sam's eyes lit on George's body, the old man's crushed chest concave and filling with a small pool of rain. The blood on his face had been washed away, but his destroyed eyes were still open, the rain hitting the unseeing orbs without remorse.

Sam shuddered at the sight.

_Buck up, Sam_, he chided himself. _You __**have to**__ do this._

It took him a moment of heaving, gasping, and kicking away debris to realize that he was hearing something over the beat of the rain. It was so close it sounded as if it were inside his head. Pausing a moment, his bent body creating a sort of tent over Mike's face as he held the man under his arms, dragging him out of the house, Sam lifted his head, trying to track the sound.

_Oh, shit. It's that… song. __**Their**__ song,_ he realized suddenly, the shard of fear that had embedded itself in his heart at the sound of Dean's cry of pain back on the beach digging a deeper furrow at the knowledge.

He'd forgotten the spirit. Forgotten the original hunt. Forgotten his job.

"_Shit_."

Sam lay Mike down, gently turning his face so that the rain ran off his features, then straightened, squaring his shoulders as if facing down an enemy.

"Camilla?" His voice trembled and he had to swallow again to avoid a hacking cough.

The humming stopped. The only sound around him was the rain, its hard tattoo beat against his face with wet splats, dropped on the sodden wood of the ruined house with a slow cadence of defeat, soaked through George Cooper's clothes to run down his hollowed-out chest.

Sam blinked when he realized he could suddenly see George's body, as if light surrounded it.

"It's… it's over," Sam said, eyes darting around the house. "She's gone." He had no time—or strength—to return to the cemetery, dig up Camilla's body, and salt and burn the bones. If it was going to end, it would have to end here. "My brother, uh… sent her away." He wasn't sure if Dean had outright _killed_ Wren… only that he'd returned her to the sea.

A shape started to part the rain, water running from a head and down shoulders as if it struck the invisible form of a woman.

"Holy…" Sam breathed, straining to see more, unsure if he wanted to.

Eyes were next—colorless, but holding a sadness that took Sam's breath away. A hand reached through the water, separating the drops, slowing their descent. Hardly daring to blink, Sam watched as Camilla Cooper's sorrow-filled spirit stepped up to her husband, her lover, her protector, guardian, and killer. Sam watched with awe as an oleander stem and flower materialized from the wet air and was laid on George's broken chest.

Camilla stood, turning to face Sam. He swallowed, feeling peace wash over him so suddenly that he swayed. Lightning sliced the air once more, thunder on its heels, and Sam felt the ground shake with the impact.

Camilla's lips quivered in a small smile, her meaning clear. _Now, it's over. _Her water-shaped body dissolved into the rain.

In her place, Sam saw the unmistakable gold and orange flames of fire spurting from the interior of the protected section of the house.

"Dammit!"

He bent again, gathering Mike up, dragging him from the house, ignoring the clunk of the big man's boots as they bounced down what was left of the porch stairs. Sam spared his wounded brother a heart-wrenched glance as he continued across the lawn to the garage, laying Mike down carefully in the protection of the sheltered building.

Stopping only briefly to ensure Mike still had a pulse, Sam ran back into the rain and to Dean. Dimly in the distance, he heard the whine of an ambulance. The kind of siren he _wanted_ to hear at this moment.

"Dean?" Sam breathed as he dropped to a splashing halt next to his brother. He cupped Dean's cheek, tipping his face up. Dean's skin was wet, the heat of it causing Sam to imagine steam rising from Dean's cheeks into the rain. His breathing was erratic, but his pulse was strong.

"Dean? Hey, man… can you… can you open your eyes for me?" He suddenly, desperately, needed to see his brother's eyes. Needed to know that he hadn't moved too slow, taken too long. That he wasn't too late. He hadn't failed…

Hearing the sirens draw closer, Sam sat in the mud next to his brother, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around Dean's shoulders, trying to protect him from the rain. He lacked the strength to do anything else.

"Dean?" he whispered, hearing the child's need for reassurance in his voice. "Dean… please…"

Inside the house, impossibly, the lightning-fueled fire caught and held, eating through the old wood and erasing the stories it held. George Cooper's body lay in the rain, surrounded by his memories, with his sin resting on his chest.

"Sam."

There were some sounds Sam knew he'd never forget. His name in Dean's voice was officially added to that list.

"Dean!"

"S-Somethin's… burnin'…"

Dean's face was pressed against Sam's chest, the blue and white lights of the approaching ambulance reflecting off his pale skin, his eyes closed against the rain. Sam smoothed his battered hand, bandage all but gone, over Dean's hair, arguing silently that he was _not_ petting him.

"I know," Sam sniffed.

"'S rainin'?"

"Yeah, man, it's raining."

"Y'okay?"

"I'm okay."

"Good," Dean breathed, sagging once more in Sam's arms.

It was only when the paramedics arrived, Sam yelling _there's a man in the garage, gunshot, and the house is on fire_, that he realized Dean had responded to him without opening his eyes.

www

Somehow, cotton had gotten into his mouth.

Not only his mouth, but across his eyes, and seemed to be stuffed into his ears as well. His mind was clear, however. Clear up to large hands reaching for Dean, easing the warmth of his brother's body away. Clear up to the feel of cold rainwater splashing against his face as he slipped sideways onto the ground, the embers of the burning house dying in the rain around him.

"De—"

"I think he's coming around," a soft, female voice said near him. A warm hand touched his, another against his cheeks. A straw was inserted into his mouth and he instinctively drank.

"M'brother…"

"Take it easy, Sam," a different voice, also female, but more stern spoke from the opposite side. "Your body has been through a great strain. I'm Dr. Wilde; do you remember me?"

"Can't see."

"I'll remove the bandages in a minute. Michelle, can you dim the lights?"

Sam tried to open his eyes, realizing that the sensation of cotton was actual—gauze pads had been placed over his tender lids, taped to either side of his face.

"You remember what happened?"

Sam swallowed. He'd lost time… he didn't know where Dean was, if Mike were alive, what had been told to this faceless doctor.

"Where's my brother?" Sam tried again, his voice stronger. He reached up, rubbing at his chest in an automatic gesture.

"Does your chest hurt?"

_Why won't you answer me?_ Sam grit his teeth. "Is he okay?" he returned.

"We'll talk about your brother in a minute. It's you I'm worried about now."

Sam went cold. Avoidance was a tactic he often used when he didn't want to face a truth, or force someone else to face it.

"I need to see Dean."

Sam heard Dr. Wilde sigh. "In a minute, Sam. Let me check your eyes."

Sam felt soft fingers brush at his temple, gently pulling the tape free. As the gauze was removed, he slowly pried his goopy lashes apart, peering at the doctor through blurred vision.

"Can you see me?"

"You're… fuzzy," Sam reached up to wipe at his eyes.

"Wait," Dr. Wilde stopped his hand. "Let me."

She vanished for a moment, then returned with a warm rag, gently wiping at his eyes, clearing the goop from his lashes. The irritating grit that had scraped against his eyes with each blink was gone. But the burn remained. It took Sam a moment to realize this burn was that of tears building at the back of his eyes, looking for an exit.

"Better?"

Sam blinked rapidly, recognizing the serious-eyed, dark-haired doctor with lines of care framing her feminine features.

"Yeah."

Nodding sternly, Dr. Wilde pulled a penlight from the pocket of her white coat, then shone it in Sam's eyes, making him wince.

"Any pain?"

"Not if you keep that light away."

"What about in your chest?"

"It's sore, yeah," Sam rubbed at his chest again, looking around. He wasn't in the ER. Not the one they'd been in after the explosion.

"I'd imagine so," Dr. Wilde put the pen light back in her pocket. "You have something that looks like… pleurisy."

"Plur…"

"Fluid in your chest cavity. If I didn't know better—" Dr. Wilde stopped, looking at Sam with narrowed eyes. "Well, I'd think you'd been suffering from pneumonia."

Sam shook his head. "Nope," he cleared his throat. "No pneumonia."

"Well, you're going to need to take it really easy for awhile. And I have some medica—"

"Doc," Sam interrupted her. "Tell me about Dean."

Dr. Wilde sighed, dropping her hands into her coat pockets. "He's resting at the moment."

Sam felt the chill in his gut grow to a ball of ice. "What happened?"

"He apparently awoke in the ambulance and…" When she paused, Sam's imagination filled in the blanks.

"He freaked out?"

She nodded. "He was in a fair bit of pain."

_And I wasn't there,_ Sam berated himself. "How is he now?"

Dr. Wilde licked her lips. "He was sedated before he reached the hospital. My call," she clarified. "He's…" She squared her shoulders, looking directly into Sam's eyes. "He has a fever. The lacerations on his neck—which should have been treated by a doctor," she chided, "have become infected. There are puncture wounds on his shoulders from an unknown weapon. And it looks like he was… chained?"

It took Sam a moment to realize Dr. Wilde's tone was accusatory. He was processing the list of wounds, noting she hadn't mentioned his ears. If he was sedated—

"Wait… are you… what are you asking me?" Sam pushed himself up on the bed.

"Michelle? Can you give us a moment?" Dr. Wilde looked over her shoulder at the young nurse that had been lurking in the shadow. Sam heard the door to his room click shut. Dr. Wilde turned to him, her arms crossed, her face stern. Sam felt an instinctive urge to pull away.

"You left my hospital with an injured hand and a brother in need of care due to impact-related deafness."

Sam looked down at his palm, seeing the butterfly bandages spread across the spaces of his cut where the stitches had once again torn loose.

"You return, and one of my PA's is in critical condition, a man this whole town loved is dead, and your brother is worse."

Sam felt guilt lick the edges of his resentment. He didn't appreciate her unspoken accusation, and felt the anger that had propelled him from the beach—Dean draped over his shoulder—climb his heart to nestle comfortably at the base of his throat, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"What's your point, Doc?"

"What happened, Sam?"

Sam lifted hot eyes to hers. "I want to see my brother."

"Not until I get an explanation."

Sam lifted his eyebrow, his jaw set. He reached for his IV and pulled the port from the catheter tube fixed to the back of his hand.

"Wait! What do you think—"

Pressing down on the tube and stopping the backwash of blood, Sam swung his legs from the side of the bed, noting that his boxers remained intact. He was grateful—hospital gowns always made him feel more naked than if he'd actually _been_ naked.

"You want an explanation?" Sam asked, rounding on the smaller woman, meeting her flashing eyes with his own determination. "I want to see my brother. Who do you think is gonna win this one?"

Dr. Wilde's nostril's flared. "You're going to have to explain this whole thing to more than just me if Mike doesn't make it through surgery," she spat at him, her quick fingers fixing his IV so that it no longer bled.

Sam felt a stab of remorse slice through him like the fine edge of a razor blade. "I know."

Staring at him a moment longer, Dr. Wilde muttered, "Follow me," then turned to storm from the room, her frustrated wrenching of the door marred by the hydraulic catch of the hinges. Sam followed, his long, pale feet making quick slapping sounds on the linoleum and mocking him in the fluorescent light of the hallway.

She led him to a room three doors down from his, pushing open another pressure-released door and stepping inside. Sam pushed past her, noting the empty bed by the door, then stepping up to the second bed, curtained off. The only light was that of the one from over Dean's bed.

Dean lay still, quiet, pale in the dimly lit room. An oxygen cannula was inserted into his nose, an IV attached to the back of his hand. Sam saw a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his bicep, the machine making a semi-grinding noise as it filled the cuff with air, making Sam jump.

"How's, uh… his…" Sam licked his lips, stepping closer. "Do you know if he can hear?"

Dr. Wilde seemed to soften. Sam felt her eyes, but didn't pull his from Dean. It felt as if the moment he looked away, Dean would disappear.

"I don't know yet, Sam."

"Mike got him some…" Sam stopped, afraid that he'd said too much.

"Antibiotics?"

"Yeah," Sam whispered.

"He's on some pretty strong ones now. We have to get his fever down. We've cleaned the cuts and treated the wounds, but he was without aid longer than I would have liked."

Sam took another step closer to the bed, his leg brushing against a plastic container hooked discretely below the covers. A catheter, Sam realized. _Dean's gonna freakin' __**love**__ that._

"Talk to me, Sam," Dr. Wilde implored, her voice like the cotton that had wrapped around Sam. "Let me help you."

Sinking one hip onto Dean's bed, Sam felt the heat of his brother's leg through the cool sheets and thin hospital gown.

"You won't believe me," he said, pulling his leg up for balance, resting his forearm on his knee. His fingers dangled just above Dean's wrist; he felt the coarse hairs there and flexed his hand so that he could rest it on Dean's.

"Try me," Dr. Wilde continued, leaning a shoulder against the wall near the head of the bed, her arms crossed, her eyes on Sam.

Sam kept his gaze locked on his brother, memories funneling through him like a freight train. He tried to slow his breathing, aware of the pull and strain on his chest muscles as his heart kicked up speed.

"My brother and I… we have an unusual job," Sam began, watching as a line appeared between Dean's brows. "We… were trying to help George. Mike was… helping us. It just… it all went wrong."

"I'll say," Dr. Wilde commented dryly.

"Wren—"

"Wren?"

"Wren Demeter," Sam nodded. "The girl that George and Camilla were caring for."

"Right."

"She… shot Mike. After she, uh, killed George."

"You have proof of this?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "I have Mike."

The room was silent for a moment.

"What about Dean?"

"He," Sam started, then stopped as a lump of emotion lodged itself above the anger still waiting at the base of his throat. "He saved all of us."

"What made those marks on his arms?"

Sam clenched his jaw, feeling an ache build at the base of his neck. "I can't explain it," he finally said, feeling weariness and worry bow his shoulders. He wanted to close his eyes, opening them only when Dean was okay and they could leave. He just wanted to hide. "I can't, I'm sorry."

Dr. Wilde sighed. "I'll get you transferred to this room," she said finally. "You two are going to be here a little while."

Sam nodded, not paying attention as she left the room, his eyes focused on Dean's face, willing his brother's eyes to open, willing him to snap, lash out, growl, tease, _anything_. Anything but this silence. Anything but this stillness. He was done with Dean not hearing him, Dean not next to him in a hunt.

He wanted his brother back.

He slumped sideways on Dean's bed, his body too tired to remain upright. Unaware of falling asleep, Sam was startled awake by the unmistakable sound of Dean cursing.

"Get offa me, man!"

Sam sat up, fast, his head swimming. At some point, someone had moved him to the bed next to Dean's. He was disoriented, sweaty, confused. His chest ached and he immediately coughed, hard, clearing his throat.

"Get the fuck, _off_!"

"Mr. Winchester—_Dean_—I just need to check your vit—"

"Ah! _God_, what the hell is that noi—"

"Dean, I—"

"For Christ's sake, stop, man, Jesus, stop _talking_!"

Sam blinked rapidly, looking over at Dean, registering two things swiftly: there were three other people in the room, and Dean's raspy voice was responding to their words.

"Hey," Sam clamored out of his bed, tripping slightly on the bed linens. "Hey, back away."

"We need to get his vitals," one of the men in the room with a rolling cart filled with instruments tried to explain. "But he won't let us near."

Dean grunted low in his throat, his fingers clumsy as they fumbled for his ears to try to protect them from the noises swimming around the room. Sam realized the TV was on, as was a beeping intercom. Someone must have grabbed the remote in an attempt to quiet Dean.

"Back away," he repeated, keeping his voice low and controlled. "You're hurting him."

"We haven't been able to touch him, yet!" Another nurse protested.

Sam grabbed her generously proportioned shoulder, moving her aside as gently as he could in his haste. He pulled the plug for the remote from the wall, shutting off the beeping and the TV in the process. Dean stilled, panting, his eyes clenched shut. Sam waved the nurses back.

"Dean?"

Dean flinched.

"Hey, man," Sam continued, not yet touching his brother, all too aware that fever made Dean's skin ultra-sensitive to touch. Even the weight of the blankets had to be rubbing against him uncomfortably. "You're okay… you're okay, Dean."

"Sam?" Dean's voice was barely a whisper.

"It's me," Sam nodded, leaning gently against the bed. "Take it easy, okay? Just go slow."

"Aw, fuck, man," Dean breathed. "I can… I can hear… _everything_."

"I know," Sam said, his voice even softer. Feeling the presence of the other three people in the room, Sam waved them away, hoping they'd get Dr. Wilde without his having to ask. "I know, man. It's okay, though."

"I can't… it's all like… jumbled," Dean said, pulling air in through tightened lips and easing his arms from his head. Sam watched his hands shake as he curled them into fists in his lap. "What—what happened?"

"There's time for that, man. We just need you to get better so we can get the hell out of here."

Dean cracked his eyes open slightly, as if the light above his bed was too harsh. Sam saw the angry red warring with the green of his irises, turning them almost neon with the contrast. "What's wrong with me?"

"You're a big damn hero, that's what's wrong," Sam grinned, sitting carefully on the side of Dean's bed. "You took out a siren."

Dean closed his eyes, dropping his head back. "Stop that clicking, man."

Sam looked around, trying to figure out what Dean heard clicking. The room was practically silent with the people gone, the door closed. All he could hear was the muted sounds of the activity out in the hall.

"Nothing's clicking, Dean."

Dean lifted a brow. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Freakin' loud," Dean muttered. "A siren, huh?"

"You remember?"

"Yeah… I think so."

"She killed George."

Dean didn't respond.

"Mike got shot—don't know how he's doing."

Dean was silent.

"Dean?"

"Hush a minute, Sam."

Sam quieted, staring at his brother. The casual observer would see a person, perhaps a little pale, resting his eyes, relaxing.

Sam saw a war.

A war waging inside a man so in tune with himself that failure to control his reaction to pain and confusion was not an option. A war with the desire to curl up and whimper and the need to portray confidence and purpose. Sam watched Dean struggle to find the right mask to secure in place, and ached as each one evaporated in the face of pain.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

"Yes, I do," Dean replied. His jaw muscle bounced, his forehead pulling tight. "I can hear you breathing. Your chest is rattling."

Sam blinked. "Wow."

Dean opened his eyes, meeting Sam's. "You look like shit, man. What happened to your eyes?"

"What do you mean?"

"They're all red."

"Hello, pot, I'm kettle. You're black."

Dean's mouth pulled up in an impression of a smile. _It's something, at least_, Sam figured.

"Seriously, Sam, you okay?"

"She put a decent whammy on me," Sam replied, rubbing his chest. "But you got to her in time. I'm okay."

"She's… gone?"

"You don't remember?"

Dean frowned, then reached up to rub at the line between his brows, his hospital ID bracelet scratching against the two-day growth of beard trimming his jaw line.

"I remember that damned bird. The _ala_."

"That was Wren, only she wasn't an _ala_."

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "I know. It's all mixed up, but… but, somehow, I know."

Sam opened his mouth to say something more, but Dean flinched a second before the room door opened, spilling light and sound into the quiet of the room. Sam turned to see Dr. Wilde step in, closing the door behind her.

"I see you have your hearing back," she said. Sam breathed a silent _thank you_ at her blessedly soft voice.

Dean scowled. "Yeah, well… now it's supersonic."

"That'll pass," she remarked. "Can I check your vitals, or are you going to go, what was it they said? Wolverine on me?"

Sam chuckled.

"What are you laughing at, Sasquatch?" Dean grumbled.

"Nothing," Sam stood, raising his hands in surrender. He watched as Dean complied with Dr. Wilde's soft instructions, then answered her questions, his voice growing increasingly weary as the minutes ticked by.

_Minutes_… Sam suddenly realized. As Dr. Wilde continued her exam, Sam turned and pulled the battery-powered clock from the wall. He held it up to his ear and sure enough, the second hand clicked as it moved around the face. He pulled the battery out.

"Oh, thank _God_," Dean breathed.

"Better?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Dean replied. "What the hell was it?"

"The clock."

"You both need rest," Dr. Wilde said, straightening up. "But if you follow my instructions, you should be able to leave in a couple of days. Sam earlier."

"No," the brothers answered in unison.

"I'll stay," Sam said.

"I figured as much," Dr. Wilde turned to leave.

"Doc, wait," Dean caught her. "How's…"

"Mike," Sam supplied.

"Mike, yeah," Dean nodded, rubbing his head as if the memories would resurface with force of will.

"He's holding his own," Dr. Wilde replied. "Not out of the woods yet, but he came through surgery. You can see him tomorrow, _if_ you rest."

She left, and Sam stood at the foot of Dean's bed, holding the clock.

"Look at that," Dean rasped, his eyes half-mast with exhaustion. "You really can stop time. You're like a superhero or something, Sammy."

Sam looked over at his brother, suddenly feeling the rain on his face, the weight of Dean's body over his shoulder, the warm stir in his belly when he thought of Wren, the despair that he'd failed again, failed Dean.

"…sit down, kiddo."

"What?" Sam gasped.

"Sammy, sit down," Dean was leaning forward on his elbow, his body trembling from the effort, his face drawn. "You just went way too white."

"God, Dean," Sam blinked, moving carefully around the bed and sinking down on his own, his legs watery from the effort of holding him upright. "We almost didn't make it."

"Yeah, but," Dean leaned back, his finger sneaking up to press against the base of his ear. "We did."

"'Cause we're the good guys," Sam intoned, his voice almost soundless.

"You bet your ass we are," Dean muttered, his eyes fluttering closed, lashes shadowing bruised cheeks. "Don't… forget that… Sammy."

* * *

_Stanford, 2003 _

_California smells different than every other state we've been in. And we've been in pretty much every state. Even drove up to Alaska once, Sam whining the whole way. He liked Vancouver, though._

_There's a used scent for a place that, in comparison to the East coast, is so new. It smells…lived in, but not in a way that feels comfortable. Every time we do this, I can't wait to leave. I'm excited to arrive and anxious to go within heartbeats of time._

_I parallel park between a minivan and a pick-up truck, two blocks from Sam's apartment. Dad is asleep in the passenger seat. His slurred instructions to keep the car hidden were as unnecessary as his continued admonishment to 'watch out for Sammy.' I know why—there was no way Sam wouldn't recognize the Impala. _

_I just don't know __**why**__. _

_Why bother checking on him if you don't want him to know? I look at Dad, the words like a bubble of thought between us. After their heated accusations thrown like weapons, me standing in the middle without a bullet-proof vest, I thought Dad was ready to give up on Sam for good_. _And yet, here we are again, sitting in the dark, hidden from sight, checking on Sam. Fourth time in as many months._

_Dad never warns me. Never tells me when, and I never ask why. I figure I already know. We're all Dad has. He pushes his friends away, keeps his lovers, if there are any, a secret, hides so much from us. But yet, we're his family. His obligation. His responsibility. His last connection to reality._

_And Sam? Sammy is his baby. I'm not so much a fool that I don't know how important that makes him. I've seen it in how Dad looks at him. How Dad talks to him. How he talks __**about**__ him. Sam is special. In a way I'll never be. _

_But none of that matters now. Because Sam left us. Left me. And there's still a fucking job to do._

_Pink Floyd creases the quiet of the night with musings about regret, softly strumming through my lonely thoughts like fingers of memory._

"How I wish, how I wish you were here. We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground. What have we found, the same old fears. Wish you were here…."

_I hear his laugh. It's low and throaty and shy. I know instantly that he's with a girl; he only sounds that needy and cautious when a woman is around. I glance in the mirror almost instinctively. The back seat is empty, as I know it will be, but I can't stop myself from checking. _

_I hear Sam talking and slide low in the seat. I can't make out his words, but he's explaining something complicated. I can hear the excitement in his tone. A soft, female voice responds, and Sam chuckles again. My heart tightens. I can almost smell him. We'd been on too many night hunts for me not to know my brother in the dark._

_They are approaching the minivan and I hold my breath, almost __**wanting**__ the confrontation. They turn right and I see a flash of a white shirt on my brother, blonde hair on the girl with him. They head up the walk and enter the apartment building. _

_I've done my job. He's okay. We can go._

_Just… I don't want to leave. Not yet. I look at Dad once more. He's out cold, the road and the whiskey adding to a beating he won't admit to getting two nights ago on a hunt I didn't even know he'd gone on. Licking my lips, I make my decision, reaching through the open window and pulling my lanky body through, knowing the creak of the Impala's door will give me away._

_Floyd continues to feed my Dad's dreams as I swing my legs over the edge of the window, jogging quickly across the street._

_"Eat your heart out, Dukes," I whisper, feeling the utter coolness of the situation. I am freakin' velvety smooth._

_The necessity of stealth causes me to fall into hunt mode and I feel my body responding. Crouching low, I scramble across the lawn and press my back against the wall. I pick the lock on the main security door around the apartment, and find the back stairs. I know from prior visits that Sam is on the third floor._

_The stairs are a metal, fire-escape sort and it's hard to maintain stealth while my booted feet thunk upwards. I hold my breath, listening, but no warning call echoes from my brother's room. I pause just outside of Sam's window, hesitating before I open to watch for the shadow of my brother's unmistakable form._

_"…nightmares about algebra," Sam is saying, that damned grin still in his voice. "I mean, that's just not normal."_

_"Oh, like your nightmares about monsters are?"_

_Her voice is a light-hearted mocking, but I feel myself still. Sam is having nightmares? Again? _

_"That's different," Sam says, and while his voice remains light, I hear the edge. The edge that always said 'enough, Dean.' _

_"It's just the stress of finals," the girl replies. "I'll be okay when they're over."_

_There is a pause in conversation, a rustling, and I lean back against the wall, pressing my hands flat and listening with my whole body._

_"What's that?"_

_"It's a dream catcher," Sam says, his voice sounding heartbreakingly young. "My brother made it for me."_

_"He made it?"_

_"Yeah, when I was a kid."_

Damn, Sammy_, I think._ You're still a kid_._

_"Did it work?"_

_"For awhile," Sam replies._

_"What happen? The monsters get too big?" Her voice has a throaty quality that I easily recognize. Women change tone when they're turned on, attracted, ready. I learned to recognize it long ago. I know she is stepping close to my brother, probably looking up at him, touching his chest. I know I should leave. This is not my place. Not my time._

_"Something like that," Sam says softly. "It's the only thing he ever gave me that I kept."_

_My fingers slide over the amulet. The Egyptian adornment hasn't left my neck since I was twelve. As long as I was alive, it never would. It was my connection to my heart, separated from my body, walking around in the world._

_"When you left home, you mean?" She asks._

_"Ever," Sam reveals. "Mostly… well, mostly what Dean gave me wasn't something I could hold, y'know? It was all… words and actions and… well, you know."_

_"Sure, I know. He's your big brother."_

_"Yeah."_

_"You miss him?" She asks, her voice tentative, worried._

_"Yeah."_

_My throat closes. I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. I'm here, Sammy, I want to say. But I know that it's only because I'm not there that he can confess such a truth._

_"Here," Sam says suddenly, bringing my head up his voice is so close. "I want you to have it."_

_"What?"_

_What?_

_"I want you to have it," Sam insists. "Keep your demons away."_

_"But, Sam, I—"_

_"Please? It would mean a lot to me."_

_She is silent, and I can guess at her answer. Those damn puppy-dog eyes are like fire on ice. I move swiftly away from the window, hurrying down the stairs, uncaring if I called attention to myself this time. I head back to the car and open the door, waking Dad with a startled jerk._

_"What are you doing?" he mumbles, rubbing his face and looking around, confused. "Did you leave?"_

_"Had to take a leak," I say. "Sam's good. You ready?"_

_"He's good? You saw him?" Dad asks, straightening up. _

_I wrinkle my nose and look out the window. "Yeah, I saw him. He's got a girl."_

_"Oh really? Thought you were the ladies man of this outfit," Dad grins, his voice raspy with disuse and alcohol._

_"I am," I say, grinning at him, effectively masking the sharp-edge sting of betrayal that wanted to scream through my skin. "Who do you think taught him?"_

_"Atta boy," Dad says. "Let's go. Got a lead on a spirit in Wyoming."_

_I shift to drive. "When were you gonna tell me about this?"_

_"Just did," Dad yawns. "Wake me when we hit the state line."_

_"Yes, sir," I say, wishing it was possible to leave a piece of myself behind to watch over my brother while I fought by my father's side._

_Life without Sam wasn't really living._

* * *

He saw people in the sea.

Legless people with yellow eyes and reaching arms. They pulled at him, ripping Wren from his grasp as she held on to him, her china-blue eyes pleading for understanding, for forgiveness, for salvation. He held her tight, but only to drag her closer to their reach.

"Don't let them take me!"

"Saving you was never part of the deal, sweetheart," he said, hearing the bitterness in his voice, and surprised at its venom.

"But they won't understand! They won't let me leave! They'll never let me leave!"

"You should have thought of that before you hurt my brother."

"I wanted to love him!"

Dean brought her close, belatedly realizing that they were underwater, their voices bubbling from blue lips, their breath stilling in their lungs.

"I could have loved him," Wren said, her cold lips against his.

"You always hurt the ones you love?" Dean asked, wanting to be sarcastic, tripping over truth.

"Yes," Wren sobbed. "I'm sorry."

She felt tiny, fragile in his grip. Wings swept around them and the legless water people approached relentlessly, their yellow eyes stabbing him with real fear.

"Dean! Please! Don't let them take me."

Dean closed his eyes against her fear and let go. He heard her scream, heard their laughter, felt them rip her apart, felt her body buck and heave as they tore into her. He opened his eyes when he was sure it was over, searching for the water's surface, wanting to breathe again.

But the yellow eyes turned on him.

"No!" Dean yelled pushing against the wings, feeling fingers tangling with his. "I _had_ to!"

The fingers were strong, wrapping around the tender flesh on his wrists, trying to hold his arms down, trying to keep him from the surface. Dean felt anger percolate within him, thrusting adrenaline upwards and giving him strength to surge away.

"I said _no!_"

"Dean!"

He opened his eyes, panting, sweat matting his thin hospital gown to the contours of his chest, his hair plastered to his skull. He blinked sweat from his lashes, seeing them tent in arrow-like shapes in front of his eyes.

He couldn't catch his breath. He was spinning, falling, the sea was dragging him down. He felt a hand reach for him and he shoved it roughly away.

"Hey!"

The voice cut through his confusion and Dean blinked again, this time focusing on his brother.

"Cut that shit out!"

"What?" Dean muttered, trying to piece together disintegrating thoughts and dream memories. "What?"

"Quit pushing me away, man!"

"Pushing you—" _The hands_, he realized. _The hands had been Sam_. "Sorry, Sammy."

He rubbed his face, feeling groves of healing cuts and the sticky residue of butterfly bandages. His neck ached, pulling with the motion of his arm.

"What the hell… what's going on?"

The quiet of the room slapped his ears with a tease of sound, as if he could hear the people four rooms over breathing. Sam's heartbeat echoed his own like a shadow. His own panting sounded like a train through his head and his teeth were chattering.

"Everything is… damn, Sammy. Everything is so freakin' _loud_."

He felt his bed shift and he looked up, seeing Sam dressed in hospital scrubs and a white T-shirt sitting by his feet. He looked beat up. Worn out. Older than his twenty-four years.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"What were you dreaming about?" Sam asks, softly. Dean could have hugged him for remembering. Their voices were echoing in his head as if there was some kind of feedback in his brain.

"I don't know… water… and Wren… and people with yellow eyes."

"Yellow eyes… like the demon?" Sam asked carefully.

Dean shook his head, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple. "I don't think so. They looked like… birds."

Sam sighed, and Dean felt the weight of that sound settle on his shoulders. "What is it, Sammy?"

"You saved me," Sam said.

Dean blinked. Waiting.

"I did this, Dean."

"Did what?" Dean asked, feeling like he was missing more pieces to the puzzle. His worry for Sam was as good as a shot of caffeine and he sat up straighter in his bed, ignoring the twinge as his punctured skin shifted under his hospital gown. "What'd you do, Sam?"

"I… lost it, Dean," Sam said, staring at the calluses on his palms, his thumb running across old scars and new wounds. "I fell for her."

"So?"

"So… you didn't."

"Dude, I couldn't _hear_ her," Dean sighed, frowning and feeling his body collapse further into the rucked up pillows. "I am sure I would have if—"

"No," Sam shook his head, his lips pressing together. "That's just it, man. You wouldn't have. You're too good for that."

Dean bit back a groan as Sam shifted uncomfortably on the bed, pulling the covers across his over-sensitive skin. He shivered.

"I _am_ good," Dean tried. "But you might be giving me too much credit."

Sam snorted, standing and moving toward the curtained window.

"Or not enough to yourself."

"You were chained to a freakin' wall, Dean."

_Oh, yeah,_ Dean thought, looking at the bandages on his wrists. He'd forgotten that part.

"You still managed to get out, get away… almost choked me in the process."

"Whoops," Dean muttered.

"Don't fucking _joke_ with me, man!" Sam whirled, his eyes hot.

Dean groaned and flinched. "Dude," he whispered. "Inside voice."

"You were wounded, _deaf_ and you still managed to grab that siren from me and drag her to the ocean," Sam continued, his volume maintaining the head-splitting level of normal. He advanced on the bed with each word until his thighs were touching the railing, his angry eyes bleeding pain down onto Dean until he couldn't catch his breath.

"What do you want me to say, Sam?" Dean replied, biting back his plea for quiet. Sam was angry, and it had been building. The only way to fix this was to have it out. He just wished he could stand. "You think I should have just… let her get you?"

"No, but—"

"So what, then?"

"I just—"

"You think that it was _easy_ dragging that girl into the water, drowning her?"

"Of course not, I—"

"You think it's been a freakin' cake walk to be stuck away from you? Not be able to hear a word anyone said? Watch you talk to that guy, watching you run off into danger while I had to stay back at the goddamn _car_?"

"No! Dean, it's just that—"

"What?"

"If you would _shut the hell up_ I'd tell you!"

Sam's bellow did him in.

Dean almost whimpered as the pain rammed through him shaking him with the force of a seizure. He felt tears, hot and needy, force themselves around his burning eyes to traverse his cheeks, finding a home at the corners of his mouth. He shook until he was panting, until the only sound in the room was the twin beats of their hearts, his rough breath, and Sam's soothing, "Easy, easy, now, you're okay, it's okay."

"Son of a…" Dean tried, unable to release the full wattage of the curse.

He felt Sam's grip, but was unable to take comfort. His body rocked to the unique beat of pain and he felt every bruise, every cut, every pulled muscle, every hair on his body as the fire of fever intensified for a moment, drawing him in on himself.

"Aw, f-fuck… m-me…" he stuttered, his teeth clacking as he tried to stop, tried to slow the shaking, tried to quiet the noise. The only thing he could hold on to was a hand. A hand gripping his. A hand anchoring him. He shuddered out breath until he felt his lungs begin to cooperate.

He opened his eyes when the shaking subsided, realizing that there was another figure in the room. A nurse with a blurred face, injecting his IV with something clear that he felt surge through his veins with intoxicating warmth.

"What the hell…"

"Don't worry about it, man," Sam was saying. Dean registered suddenly that his brother sat next to him on the narrow bed, an arm around his shoulders, a hand gripping his in a wrestler's hold, bracing him and comforting him in one simple embrace.

"Whoa…" Dean muttered as the nurse left. He felt the world shift left in slow motion, taking his powers of speech with it. "Sam… what, uh… what you said… 'bout…"

"Forget it," Sam said, his voice like a record being played at half speed. "It's okay, Dean."

"No," Dean shook his head and blinked slowly as the room followed his vision on a five second delay. "Need t'lie down."

Sam slid his arm from beneath his shoulders, easing him back against the pillows, but kept his hand, forming a lifeline that neither brother took for granted. Dean blinked at his brother's tortured face.

"You're gonna b'ok, Sammy," he said, focusing hard to get the words out. "Not gonna… lose... won't let you…"

"If you say so," Sam sighed and dropped his head.

As the lull of painkillers seduced Dean to quiet oblivion, he tried one last reassurance. "You don't have… to know what… t'do, Sammy. We do't together."

It made sense to him. But he heard Sam's rueful chuckle as he slipped into unconsciousness, giving the miracle of modern medicine one more chance.

When he opened his eyes next, he felt clearer, not as hot, but just as sore. He turned his head slowly on the pillow, feeling the wounds on his neck crinkle with the motion. Sam sat on the opposite bed, his arms on his knees, his feet propped on the lower bar of his bed.

"How long?" Dean rasped.

"Couple hours," Sam replied. "Thirsty?"

"Yeah."

Sam stood, lifting a styrofoam cup with a straw to Dean's cracked lips. He drank deeply, listening as the water fell down his throat in cooling waves. When Sam set the cup back down and settled once again on his bed, Dean took a deep breath.

"Lavender," he said.

"Huh?"

"Someone wears it," Dean explained. "Someone who was just in here."

"A nurse. You gonna keep up this vampire scent thing?"

"You got me," Dean replied. "Hope not, 'cause you can get pretty gamey."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Says the man who thinks clean is a state of mind."

Dean smiled softly, closing his eyes. "At least things aren't echoing so much."

"I won't yell anymore," Sam promised.

Dean slid his eyes to the side. "Right."

"Well, not until you're better."

They sat for a moment, breathing. Dean felt the lingering residue of Sam's words sitting like a ghost between them.

"Tell me about it, Sammy," he sighed. "All of it."

Sam dropped his head in his hands, fingers threading his long hair, voice focused on the floor. He spoke of Wren's draw on him, on wanting her like he hadn't wanted someone since Jessica, on it feeling so damn good just to hold her. Dean swallowed, Sam's pain like a punch to his already bruised body.

He remembered that need, that draw, that desire. Hadn't felt it since Cassie, but he remembered. And he knew Sam needed it so much more than he did. Always had. Because, Dean surmised, he remembered what his mother's touch felt like. He remembered that someone had loved him with every piece of her. He remembered her skin and her hair and her smell, even if he couldn't always remember her face.

Sam had none of that.

Sam went on to talk about Mike and his efforts to save them, his willingness to jump into the fray even when he didn't completely buy the reasons. Dean bit his lip when Sam recounted how Mike had been hurt. He wanted to growl in frustrated annoyance at not having been there, but remained silent.

It was when Sam told him of the trek from the sea, Dean limp and helpless over Sam's shoulder, that he couldn't suppress the groan of disgust.

"You were hurt, man," Sam offered. "You grabbed her and… you fought her. I watched her turn into the bird-woman and her talons dug into you and you never let go. You never let go… and then you disappeared in the water and I wanted to run after you, but…"

Dean watched as Sam rubbed his chest, realizing suddenly that the motion was now familiar.

"Anyway, you came out, without Wren, and I knew we'd won. I knew she hadn't gotten us—'cause you were there."

"I didn't do it alone, Sam," Dean reminded him. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"Not true," Sam replied. "You would have been better off without me."

Dean flinched, looking away, those words biting him back as his own thoughts. "What about George?"

Sam sighed. "That's where it gets weird."

Dean almost laughed. The Winchester definition of _weird_ defied convention. "You said… Wren killed him?"

"The first time she, uh… sang, or whatever. It was like his… chest collapsed and his eyes liquefied."

"That's… disgusting."

"Tell me about it. I put my hand on his chest before I realized it was… jelly."

"Okay, so, dinner tonight is out."

"But, Dean, Camilla's ghost—"

"You saw her?"

Sam nodded. "She was… like water. _Sad_ water. Does that make sense?"

"No, but when has anything we've seen made sense?"

"Good point," Sam bounced his head once. "She put a flower on his body."

"Let me guess: oleander," Dean said, rubbing at his head. Memories of the hunt, of research, of a computer screen with frightening facts swam before him.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

Dean shrugged. "It's my job to know these things."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, she… kinda sighed, then disappeared."

"Wait, she… just… went? No burning of bones? No salt?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I think lightning struck the house because—"

"It was burning," Dean interjected.

"Right. You remember?"

"Kinda… I remember… smelling it."

"I don't think they got George's body out," Sam said, sadness clear in his voice.

"Maybe it's for the better, Sam," Dean offered.

Sam shrugged. "Well, all I know is, that old guy loved his wife. Called her his 'girl.' I just think that they should be buried next to each other."

Dean closed his eyes. "Sam, where you're buried doesn't matter. You know that."

Sam was silent. Dean opened his eyes, turning on the pillow to stare at his brother until Sam lifted his gaze to lock in on him. "We know better than anyone that the bodies are just… shells. Some of us have better looking shells than others, but… that's it. When it's over… the body is… well, good for only one thing."

"I know…"

"She forgave him," Dean said, relaxing back, and letting his eyes fall closed once more.

"You think so?"

"Why else would she have given him the oleander? White flag of peace..."

"I think she planted it to kill Wren," Sam said.

Dean nodded, eyes still closed. "Probably."

"People live sad lives," Sam sighed. Dean heard his bed creak as he laid back.

"Not all the time, Sam. They were happy."

"Didn't end that way, though."

Dean wanted to reply, to dig the sorrow from Sam's voice, but sleep was too seductive and he fell into its embrace once more. When next he woke, it was to someone checking his vitals once more. A fortyish woman, with tired eyes.

"Hi," he mumbled in his best sleepy-voice, his eyes blinking drowsily. "Think I can, uh, get this… thing out?"

"The catheter?" The nurse asked.

Dean nodded. "I really want to get up."

She turned, checking his chart, then nodded. "Think I can take care of that."

With a quick flip of his blankets, shielding his lower body from Sam's bed with her ample hips, the nurse put her latex-covered fingers on his thigh, then looked up at him.

"Ready?"

Dean nodded again. A quick tug, sharp pain and it was over. He smiled his thanks, then closed his eyes as she finished her reports. When he heard the door click shut, he looked over at Sam. His brother was sleeping deeply, mouth open in relaxation, arm hanging off the side of the bed.

Dean smiled. Others might find it strange, living in such close quarters as they did, always around each other, rarely a break from each other's company. And there were certainly tensions there—the Trickster had found them and amplified them.

But there was nothing as comforting to Dean as the sight of his best friend at peace. It brought him solace that not even the arms of a good woman had offered.

Sliding carefully from the bed, unplugging his IV regulator from the wall, Dean moved around the room on weak legs. The air of the hospital was cool against his still-warm skin, the fever down, but not forgotten, and the gown made him feel vulnerable and exposed in ways he should never be willingly exposed, but there was something he had to do.

Grabbing a pair of the scrubs someone had folded at the foot of Sam's bed, he carefully slid them on, trying not to fall face-forward. Slipping from the room, he moved quickly down the hall to the nurse's station. It didn't take him long to find Mike's room. The elevator ride was nauseating, but thankfully short. He made his way to the door, leaning heavily on his IV stand. Mike was in a private room; one of the perks of being a hospital employee, he assumed.

His right leg was wrapped in a blue brace, hanging from a soft sling by the ankle. He had enough wires and tubes in him that Dean was sure he could easily jump-start a car. He was frowning at the TV, pushing the channel up button.

"Daytime TV sucks," Dean said, announcing his arrival.

Mike jumped, then winced, pressing a hand on his side.

"Sorry," Dean offered, moving closer. He watched Mike's dark eyes search his tray, then realized he was looking for paper. "It's okay, man. You can talk."

"You can hear me?"

"Shhh… not so loud, though. Seems my, uh… sound filter is still a bit hinky."

Mike nodded, and they regarded each other silently for a moment.

"You gonna be okay?" Mike asked finally.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "I'll live. You?"

Mike looked down at his leg. "My rodeo days are done," he said. "Can't rescue a cowboy from a pissed-off bull on a bum leg."

"I'm sorry, man."

Mike lifted the corner of his mouth in a small smile. "S'okay. Still got my day job. Saving people."

Dean took a breath. "About that…"

"You're welcome."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "How do you know I was gonna thank you?"

"'Cause you looked about ready to hurl, so I figure it must be either that or, 'you're right, I'm wrong.'"

"Funny."

"I try."

"I'm sorry about your friends, though," Dean said, sincerity making his eyes burn.

Mike looked down. "Thanks."

"Sam told me, uh… what happened."

"It's, uh… really hard to believe."

"I imagine so. Guess Camilla was trying to tell George about Wren for awhile. Even after she was gone."

"Still can't get my head around that… Hey, where were you, anyway?"

Dean held up a wrist. "I was a little… tied up."

"In the tunnels, right?"

Dean nodded.

Mike huffed out a small laugh. "Camilla led us there… well, led Sam there."

"She's a real pal," Dean laughed slightly. "For a ghost."

"Guess George was right," Mike sighed. "They're not all bad."

_If you say so,_ Dean thought, echoing Sam's earlier sentiment.

"Sam okay?" Mike asked.

"He will be."

"He really didn't want Wren to be a… whatever the hell she was."

"He saw something in her that we all missed."

"What was that?"

"Her soul," Dean said softly, causing Mike to look at him, a strange light in his eyes.

Feeling his legs begin to shake, Dean reached out a hand. "Thanks for your help, Denzel," he grinned.

"You're welcome, James."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "James?"

Mike jutted his head forward. "Hello? As in James Dean? _Rebel Without A Cause_?"

Dean's mouth dropped open.

"Dude, I figure you think I got me some of the flash of Mr. Denzel Washington, I had to return the favor. I think you got '_cause_' in spades, though…"

Dean's laugh shook him from his toes up. "You're all right, man."

"Not so bad yourself," Mike smiled.

Dean kept that grin with him as he trekked back to his room to fall, exhausted and sore onto his bed, his brother snoring in a peaceful, nightmare-free sleep in the bed next to his.

* * *

_Minnesota, 2004 _

_I grip the steering wheel tightly, finding the worn grooves from my father's fingers, wanting to wipe the sweat from my eyes, but unable to move my other hand from my bleeding side._

_The hot burn of the wound has faded to a trembling cold and my teeth are chattering. I know that's not good, but I can't stop until I get there. It's the only place I can think to go, the only home I've ever known besides the one I am in._

_The Impala swerves, matching my blurred vision, and I tip my head toward the open window, drawing in air. The radio is on, decibel ten, but GNR's plea about having patience is not what I need at the moment and I yell at the radio to play something worth freakin' _listening_ to._

_I search for the elusive road sign, the only marker that will alert me that I must turn or pass his house, my refuge. I am starting to shake and grind my teeth, pressing the accelerator as Tom Petty stated that living like a refugee was not the way to go._

_I groan, realizing too late that I'd passed the sign, and think furiously where I can go at this hour, in this condition, to find help._

"…Somewhere, somehow, somebody must have kicked you around some. Tell me why you want to lay there, revel in your abandon... it don't make no difference to me baby. Everybody has to fight to be free, you see…"

_The lights of the chapel draw me in, and I end up curbing the Impala as I power slide to a stop. Shutting off the engine, I sit for a moment to collect my breath. This is all I have left, the only refuge I know. Because I was a refugee, despite Tom's admonishment. I laugh slightly at this thought, then sober up quickly as I realize my blood is spilling over my hand, down my jeans and onto the Impala's seat._

_"Shit," I mutter, pushing the door open and staggering around the front, bouncing off the grill in my haste to get inside. _Please be there_, I find myself chanting. _Just please… somebody, be there.

_The door to the chapel is heavy, and I almost lose my grip, but manage to push it open. It swings wide, slamming against the wall and echoing loudly through the empty sanctuary. He's standing at the pulpit, an arm in the air, mouth open, mid-lecture. He looks older, time-worn and gray. _

_"Dean?"_

_"I need your help," I tell him, my own voice sounding strange in my ears._

_He stumbles down from the altar, approaching me in a cautious, shocked gait. _

_"Dean? What… Where's John?"_

_"On a hunt," I say, stumbling against one of the pews the noise of wood scraping on wood loud in the empty sanctuary. "I need your help."_

_Jim reaches me, his eyes watering from surprise or wonder, I'm not sure, his hands warm and strong on my shaking shoulders. He scans me quickly, taking in the dirt, the grease, the scratches and the bruises. His eyes widen when he sees my side, the gouge visible through my torn shirt._

_"What the hell?" Jim exclaims. I am always surprised to hear him swear, though I've heard it often enough._

_"Werewolf," I explain. "It's dead. I need your help." I need to get him to realize this._

_"Dean, sit down," he orders, trying to turn me toward one of the pews._

_"In a minute," I say, reaching a hand into my blood-soaked pocket. _

_"Where's Sam?" Jim asks. _

_I know with absolute certainty that if he hadn't been holding me, I would have fallen._

_"Oh, dear God, is he—"_

_"He left," I say. It's the first time I've said it out loud in awhile. "He's at school. In California. He left us."_

_"He… left?" Jim repeats, shock plain in his eyes._

_"I need your help," I repeat, my voice firm, my body betraying me. I can no longer stand and slide down the side of the pew to the wooden floor, Jim following me, still gripping my arms. I pull the amulet from my pocket, holding it out to him._

_"It caught on the werewolf's teeth," I say. "Just before I killed it. I can't put it back together."_

_"What?" Jim asks, taking the amulet from me, confused. _

_"It tore… the…" My vision swims and I force my eyes wider. "The strap tore and it won't hold a knot. I think… I think because—"_

_"Of the werewolf saliva," he concludes. _

Yes_, I think. _Yes, thank you. _Finally, someone to help._

_"Let's get you taken care of first—"Jim tries, shooting his worried eyes to me._

_"No!" I cry. "I need. Your. HELP…"_

_"Okay," Jim soothes. "Okay, Dean. I'll help. I promise."_

_"Fix it," I implore. I can barely get the words out. I am so cold, yet my side is burning. I press my hand carefully to the wound, the claw seeming to meld with my torn skin. "Please…"_

_It's everything, I want to say. It's all I have. Jim looks at me, then cups the back of my neck, easing me to the floor. He removes his jacket and covers my shivering body._

_"I'll be right back, Dean," he promises. "You stay here, okay?"_

_"Okay."_

_I allow him to tend to my wound only when the amulet is safely in place, its comforting weight like the back of Sam's hand against my heart. I allow him to soothe my fever, cleanse the cut with holy water, hold me down as the water burns like acid and I buck with pain, screaming because there is no other way to stop the heat._

_I allow Jim to question Dad's choices and Sam's absence, as I heal, gathering my strength until I am able to cross the room unaided. I answer him succinctly, knowing that I need him, knowing his concern is for me. But they're my family, and whatever choices they make, and however those choices hit me, is my business. No matter who wants to care about me._

_"You always have a place here, Dean," Jim tells me a week later when I'm finally strong enough to leave, though sooner than he wants me to. "All of you. Don't forget that."_

_"I won't."_

_"Remind your Dad."_

_"I will," I promise. "Thanks," I say, still unable to address him directly. He's aged, as I have. But time has worn him down like water on rock. Beating him and thinning him. He's been a shelter from the storm of life, but I know I won't come back again. _

_It would be too much risk; I feel my walls growing thin around Jim. I can't let him see me._

_"Sam's gonna be okay, Dean," Jim says, laying a hand on my arm. "Sometimes… you gotta let someone find their own way home."_

_"Yeah," I say quietly. _

But it never hurts to send them a map once in awhile_, I think._

* * *

He stood on the edge, boots tied by laces and hanging over his shoulder, jeans rolled up, waiting for the water to climb higher.

The sea was supposed to be soothing, hypnotic, offering calm unlike any other. All Dean saw was loss. All he heard was weeping. All he felt was cold and the gritty discomfort of salt. The one element that should erase evil. The one element that held its prisoners in the fathoms of liquid fear.

"There you are!" Sam's voice was a forced cheer, as if he'd been giving himself a silent lecture on how to handle a recuperative brother.

"Here I am," Dean said softly, not turning from the sea. The water splashed against his feet, tugging softly at the sand. He felt himself sink.

"You didn't leave a note this time," Sam carefully admonished.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, not looking at his brother as Sam stopped next to him. "Just needed some air."

They had been released from the hospital two days prior, Dean's fever broken, but his body weak, leaving him at the mercy of his worried younger brother. He was determined to build his strength so that they could get away from the gray heaviness that was Delaware. At least, Lynch Heights, Delaware.

"I was just… concerned."

"Well, don't be," Dean snapped. "I can take care of myself."

"What's with you?"

"Nothing," Dean lied. "Thinking."

"About what?" Sam persisted.

Dean sank a little more as the ocean collected the sand from beneath his feet. "You ever think about what will stop you?"

"Stop me from what?" Sam asked.

"Hunting."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "I don't know. Getting that demon."

"You'll stop when we get the demon?" Dean slid his eyes to the side.

"What?" Sam asked, clearly off balance by Dean's melancholy.

The forced _I'm always all right_ attitude Dean had held onto for the last few days was erased that morning when he woke and couldn't find his amulet. It had only been off of him two other times: once in a hunt, and once in the hospital. The clasp had rubbed against the stitches on his neck, and he'd loosened it to try to alleviate the discomfort.

He'd found it quickly under his spare pillow, but the moment of panic had brought him to a mind-jarring realization. A realization he wasn't ready to deal with.

"I don't think you'll stop then, Sam."

"How do you know?" Sam replied, petulant.

"I don't think you'll ever stop."

"I stopped when I was at school," Sam threw at him, his voice hard. "I stopped with Jessica."

"But you don't have Jess anymore," Dean pointed out, hating the flash of pain on his brother's face, but needing to say it. He sank a little deeper. "You won't stop because you need this, Sam. You need a purpose."

"Yeah? Well, what about you?"

"You're my purpose."

Sam looked away. "Dean…"

"I mean it, Sam. You and Dad… you're all I've ever really had."

"What about Cassie?"

Dean shook his head. "She was no Jessica."

They were silent for another moment, the sea happily filling the void.

"What would make you stop?" Sam asked softly.

"Losing you," Dean answered immediately.

"What?"

"You said it yourself once," Dean said, looking at his brother, sinking a little more. "You lost Jess, we lost Dad… if I lost you, I wouldn't want to fight anymore."

"But, Dean… you love this life."

Dean simply shook his head, unable to voice a response. Unable to simply say that it wasn't the life he loved, it was the results. It was people alive because of them. It was evil defeated. It was Sam safe. This life… this life would be the death of him.

He rubbed his neck carefully, wanting to rid himself of the ever-present knot, wary of disrupting the still-healing cuts. He hadn't even been able to protect himself from a yahoo and a broken bottle this time.

"You'd go on, though," Dean said. "If you lost me, you'd go on."

"No, I wouldn't," Sam said harshly.

"Yeah, you would," Dean contradicted, nodding toward the ocean. "And that's okay. It's what you do, Sam. You persevere. You'll never stop fighting until the fight's done."

"You're the one that saved _me_, Dean. You're the one that drowned the siren."

"This time."

Sam grabbed Dean's arm, pulling him away from the slow seduction of the water, forcing him to yank his feet from the wet sand.

"You're the one that's _gonna _save me, Dean," Sam said. "So you don't have to keep your promise."

They stared at each other a moment, internal wills stepping onto an age-old battleground.

"You get me?" Sam released Dean's arm, but his eyes held fast.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, understanding beginning to brighten. Sam might go on fighting without him, but it would only be _because of_ him that Sam could win the fight. "Yeah, I get you."

"Good. C'mon."

"What?"

"It's freezing out here, for one," Sam said, turning toward the parked car. "And… I got you something."

"Huh?" Dean trotted to keep up with his long-legged brother. "I miss a birthday?"

"No, dumbass," Sam grinned back at him. "Just… consider this a… welcome back to the world of the hearing."

Dropping into the passenger seat, Dean used his socks to knock the sand from his feet as they dangled out of the Impala's doorway. He stuffed his nearly-dry feet into his boots, then turned to face Sam.

"Well?"

Sam turned on the car.

"What are you grinning at, you freak?" Dean grumbled. "You're starting to creep me out."

"Turn on the radio."

"You dedicate a song to me, Sammy?" Dean quipped, reaching for the dial. He realized just as he turned it to ON that there was a cassette tape in the player.

_"Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true. A-wanted a woman, never bargained for you. Lots of people talkin', few of them know…soul of a woman was created below, yay…"_

"Sammy… what—"

Sam tossed the case to him. Dean caught it in mid-air, turning it over in his hand to read the cover.

"Zeppelin's anthology," he read in wonder. "You got me Zeppelin's anthology."

"Yep," Sam grinned.

"Who… how… where…"

"Uhh… Sadie, Internet, record store."

"It's a cassette tape," Dean said, amazed.

"That it is."

"But, Sam," Dean looked up, trying to keep the absolutel wonder from his eyes. "You can't just get these…I mean, with all the CDs... how did you pull this off?"

Sam grinned again. "Open it."

Dean flipped the plastic cover open. Two scrawled signatures in blue ink met his eyes.

_Thanks for the memories. I'll never swim in the ocean again. – Denzel. _

_That's one sexy car. Next time you're out this way, we'll bypass Judo's and head straight to the backseat. – Sadie._

"Huh," Dean breathed.

"You like it?"

"I love it, Sam." He looked up at his brother, his face relaxing into his first grin in days. "Thanks."

"Welcome," Sam said, settling back in the driver's seat. "You ready to kick the dust off?"

"Think this time it's sand," Dean said ruefully, looking down at the floor boards.

Sam checked over his shoulder to make sure the way was clear. "Yeah, well, I've had enough Greek mythology and sea life for awhile. How about we just drive for awhile?"

"Works for me—only you're in the wrong seat."

"Chill out, brother," Sam said, his dimples flashing. "Savor the moment."

_"…Many times I've lied. Many times I've listened. Many times I've wondered how much there is to know. Many dreams come true and some have silver linings. I live for my dream and a pocketful of gold…"_

Dean acquiesced, leaning back and letting his still-battered body relax into the sound of his brother humming off-tune, the rumble of the powerful Chevy engine, the grind of rubber meeting road, and the balm that was Zeppelin.

* * *

a/n: So, that's it. Hope you liked it. Thanks so much for reading.

Next multi-chapter is a story called "Weapon and the Wound." The title was inspired by a Days of the New song of the same name. Set in Season 3 after _Dream a Little Dream of Me_, this story will return the druid Brenna Kavanagh to the boys. Feeling the pressure of sands running through the hour glass, Sam and Dean are leaving no stone unturned as they search for a way to save Dean from his deal. A chance encounter with Brenna both offers Dean some hope and strips him of all choices as they are pitted against a foe not even John Winchester had encountered.

With the backdrop of the Pennsylvania coal mines, trains, and an unseasonably hot Indian Summer, the Winchesters find that choosing to live could mean deciding to die. And the phrase, "You're my brother, and I'd die for you," has never held more meaning.

Playlist:

_Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing_ by Chris Isaac

_Rise Above This_ by Seether

_Wish You Were Here_ by Pink Floyd

_Patience_ by Guns and Roses (in a passing reference)

_Refugee_ by Tom Petty

_Dazed and Confused_ by Led Zeppelin

_Over the Hills and Far Away_ by yet again, the mighty Zeppelin (Intex, this one is for you, girl.)


End file.
